


Creased silk

by Moonrose001



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Harpy Sam, M/M, Merman Bucky, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Platonic Cuddling, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Thor Is Not Stupid, Urban Fantasy, Wherein Steve crosses his arms and argues with people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-26
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2018-07-10 10:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose001/pseuds/Moonrose001
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a post-apocalyptic world Steve Rogers is a witch working at a cosmetics firm, when HYDRA invades New York. Something dangerous erupts in Steve, and the next time he wakes up he's in a facility for hollow magic addicts, having no recollection of what he has done. A link has been formed between him and the Red Skull and Steve knows HYDRA is going to hurt more people.<br/>Only problem is getting out of the facility, working with the Avengers and trying to figure out how the hell he can stay in a fake relationship with the necromancer, T'Challa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I know this AU is a stretch, but hey let me be a bit creative. This AU isn't something you need background knowledge to understand. It's inspired by some fantasy universes, such as LOTR and HP, and of course some variant mythology.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First warning: It is mentioned that a character will most likely form suicidal ideation.
> 
> Shoutout to AsterRoc for betaing!

The only thing Steve knows is this: Sam is flying and Steve is fastened safely to his chest, when the sea starts glowing red underneath them. The next second Sam’s communicator is beeping, and even though he has pretty much already taken off his uniform, he does a sharp turn and flies back towards Manhattan.

”What’s going on?” Steve asks, but Sam’s face is hard, pinched.

The ominous glow of the water only becomes stronger as they near the island. Black ancient submarines are surfacing like huge frogs in the surface of the water, and it takes a moment for Steve to realize that there are men clad in black streaming out of them like ants. They’re shooting at the buildings and running through the streets, armed with guns firing blue lasers.

”I don’t know, but it’s a code blue,” Sam belatedly informs. ”It can’t be nothing good. I have to drop you off here, Stevie.”

Stevie nods with a concerned frown. Sam drops him off on the Brooklyn Bridge, and instead of turning around and walking back to Brooklyn, he stays put. He’s not reckless; he does put a veil on top of him, crafted to not make him invisible, but unnoticeable. He runs towards Manhattan, and sees Sam circle the submarines with a couple of other harpies and a bunch of other fliers of the City Guard. The Army has already deposited a container in the water, and the harpies do their familiar sharp dive, snatching up the ants with their strong arms and throwing them into the huge container, which eats the ants without a sound.

Steve stares in horror at the battle. He has never heard of anything but the regular minor incident, fights about territory, mates, and whatever trivial things magical creature usually fight about – but he never seen any of this sort, nothing like the ants. They don’t think, they just do. They almost seem blind to their own destruction, seem pure in their intent on causing damage to the people running away screaming, most of them not fast enough.

_Terrorism._

A word he encountered in history class; using violence and intimidation ruthlessly to get what they want. But he has never seen it firsthand, and it makes him feel cold, makes him shimmer with the horror of it.

A figure rises up from one of the submarines and Steve is close enough to see better now. Probably too close. There’s something different about this man though. He moves with a certain eased grace. Controlled motor skills, confident in his certainty of remaining unharmed. He has to be their leader. And it appears that Sam realizes this as well. Instead  continuing to pick at the avalanche of soldiers, he heads for the man and orders the rest of the fliers to continue being defense.

He takes a dive, confident.

And this is the image Steve will remember forever.

Sam, out of his uniform, his talons spread out, his wings beautifully wringed in his dive, focused in his action, focused on his dive. Steve forgets too often that Sam is a predator, a hunter. Only in moments like this does Steve realize how dangerous Sam can be.

The figure seems to sense it, because even as Sam is diving with the speed of 300 km/h, the figure senses it and he twists around, and takes a shot with his laser gun.

And then Sam is no longer an arrow, no longer a bullet, he’s falling, twirling towards the sea, leaving a trail of his red beautiful feathers and blood behind. He falls into the water, and that’s not what sets Steve off.

 

What sets him off is the casual way the man continues his stride. Like nothing even happened. Like a piece of Steve’s sunshine and moonlight didn’t just disappear. Like Sam’s tattered wing is nothing.

Like he doesn’t care that harpies go mad and kill themselves if they can’t fly anymore.

And that’s what sets him off, what has always set him off: injustice. The lack of empathy. The act of making people suffer ruthlessly.

And something in him replies. Something just as bad. And that’s all he remembers.

\-----

When he wakes up, he’s restrained.

Why anybody would restrain a 52 kg, 1,45 m tall man, Steve doesn’t know. He’s a nice mix of druid and Wiccan and that has indeed provided him gifts in most areas of sorcery, but the thinned blood also limits his capabilities within those areas.

His glasses and hearing aids are missing, so the room he’s in is in monochrome and the sounds of the machines are subtle and dulled. His head is pounding in a violent headache and his body feels numb. He tries to open his mouth to call for help, but his lips are bloodless and his vocal chords feel like he has been drinking acid.

He passes out.

\-----

The next time he wakes up is because his nostrils and eyes are burning and he wakes up screaming, trying to thrash away but to no avail. The feeling of burning subsides and he calms down enough to try and sit up, but he’s restrained and he blinks his watery eyes, trying to get his vision back. He slumps, closes his eyes and tries to breath through his panic, when the burning abruptly starts again. He gasps.

“That’s enough,” a cutting voice says, and the fire disappears, and he struggles towards wakefulness, just so he can find out what the hell is going on.

In the end the survival instinct nobody believes exists in him wins, and he fights his way towards consciousness.

“He’s been sleeping for two days,” a rough voice defensively says in a way that indicates that the person isn’t going to apologize.

“Steven,” the first voice calls out and now he recognizes it. The British accent and the tone never hit amiss, and Steve says, “Peggy?” or at least tries to. He coughs and calls out, “Peggy?” again, but no one touches him reassuringly.

“Calm down, Steven,” Peggy says, this time calmer. “I can’t touch you right now, but you need to take six deep breaths and then try to talk again.”

The first one is hard, the second is a bit easier, but by the third one anxiety is creeping into his lungs, and he asks, “Where am I? What did you do to my eyes?”

“It’s a side effect,” Peggy answers. “It’ll pass in some minutes.”

Steve bites his lip, hands quavering.

“Steve, what were you doing at the bridge?” Peggy asks.

Steve frowns. “What bridge?”

“Brooklyn Bridge, kid,” the rough voice says in a much harsher tone.

Steve blinks blindly and Peggy gives him some water.

And then Steve remembers.

“Sam!” he shouts, trying yet again to get up from the bed, this time wriggling in the restrains instead of trying to get out of them with sheer strength.

“Sam is okay,” Peggy sooths.

“His wing – "

“He’s restrained. They caught him in time,” Peggy assures and Steve inhales shakily.

Sam hasn’t gotten to harm himself yet. But that’s what happened to all of the harpies with broken wings. They did rehab, pretended they were fine for years and as soon as the supervision receded, bam, they threw themselves off the nearest bridge. That they caught Sam before he got to do that is good, but how will Sam come to terms with it in the future? Steve will… do something. Try to fix it. He will – he will go to the state, try to get the White Books in his hands, see if there’s any healing spell, any remedy to make it better for Sam, he will go anywhere if there’s a possibility that he can keep Sam from hurting himself.

“Can I see him?” Steve asks.

“We’re making him sleep until his injuries are healed.”

“Who is nursing him?”

“He’s getting the best care.”

“I can do it better!” Steve shouts in helplessness, wanting so bad to help, fighting against the restraining bonds.

“You can’t see him, Steve,” Peggy solemnly tells him. Her voice is low and sad and no, no, she must be lying – “You can’t see him anymore.”

“Why?!” Steve shouts, clenching his hands. “Why have you restrained me?”

“Because of your use of hollow magic.” It’s the rough voice now, and Steve thinks he is beginning to see the shape of the ceiling. Steve blinks in confusion,

“What are you talking about?” he demands to know. “I’ve never used hollow magic in my life, I’m a witch, I can’t – “

“But you did,” Peggy carefully claims. “Don’t you remember?”

He frowns at the ceiling, the light is coming through now, too sharp, but it’s something.

He turns this head towards them, sweat starting to roll down his body. “No? I – I was on Brooklyn Bridge – “

“You got close instead of getting in safety,” she interrupts.

“I was curious and worried,” Steve justifies even though he knows what he did was stupid. “I put a veil on me, I figured it wouldn’t be so bad. I – I’ve never seen terrorism before, I never thought it’d happen in New York.”

“And what happened after that, kid?” the rough voice prompts, and Steve can see that it’s an older man in his fifties, his face wrinkled like thin leather, his hair gray and flat, eyes pinched and hard, mouth corners turned down in an unhappy permanent grimace.

“I,” Steve stutters, eyes quickly flickering to Peggy, and that’s how he knows that something terrible must have happened. Her lashes are clumped together in triangles, how they always look when she has cried with her mascara on. Her lipstick, dark today, is lined up sharp. Dark rings are showing underneath her eyes, her curls fluffy and ruffled instead of crispy and silky. “Sam was shot down,” he recollects. “By a man with a pistol, shooting blue lasers.”

“And?” the older man's rough voice continues.

“And,” Steve repeats, shrugging, not knowing what to say. “That’s the last thing I remember, I must’ve – must’ve gotten hit by some debris, must’ve gotten knocked out.”

“No, Steven,” Peggy says and she still sounds so unbearably sad. “You used hollow magic.”

Steve shakes his head. “It can’t be.”

“You did,” the old man insists and lifts up a tablet. “For 14 hours straight.”

The screen comes alive and Steve is silenced. It’s a camera shot of the place he was on the bridge, and true enough, there’s a little black dot, shining with pure white light. The light the figure emits extends into the shape of hands, big hands which are swinging around, ripping the submarines apart, tossing people in black around, clenching their bodies like they are mere insects.

Ants.

But.

The man who shot down Sam is on the beach, cocooned in black energy, also radiating white light and eight hands are spinning him in what looks like threads of silk, spinning and spinning him in like a spider.

The older man fast-forwards the clip and the figure on the bridge continues his attack viciously. Even though the hands are big and powerful, the men clad in black are quick, efficient and many. As most of them disappear into the city, the hands continue to smash the empty marines into balls of iron.

“What happened to Sam during this?” Steve whispers.

“He’s there,” the older man grunts and taps at a black glowing spot in the sea. “Your chaotic attempt of counterattack – “

“It wasn’t me,“ Steve denies.

“It was,” the old man says.

“Steve has never shown signs of practicing hollow magic, Phillips,” Peggy protests.

“You’re too close for this case,” the old man talks over her. “You’re here as a guest. Remember that.”

She closes her mouth, looking angry about it.

“Look,” Steve tries. “I know the video is not tampered with, but I’ve never touched hollow magic in my life. Alright? My mom and her mom taught me to never even try it. I’ve never practiced it before, and I don’t intend to now.”

“Are you claiming you’ve been set up?” Phillips asks.

Steve stares at him. “I don’t know. But that attack? Takes years to master controlling hollow magic like that. It’s not something you can learn to do overnight. Raid my apartment, my workplace, ask my friends – you won’t find anything.”

Phillips points at the screen. “Except this.”

\----

Alright, so Steve waking up in rehab, accused of using the most forbidden sort of magic in history, probably isn’t his best moment. But Steve is really a normal guy.

He was born and bred in Brooklyn. He never knew his father. His mother was a witch, and so had his grandmother been. He spent every summer in Louisiana, where grandma owned a piece of land in the forest, being in the pockets of all magical creatures living there too. Steve was trained as a witch through all of his life, but the lessons intensified in Louisiana, in the summer. Like most users of magic, he was able to manipulate energies. How and why you manipulated energies are another story though, and his kind, witches, chose to mostly use their powers as healers.

His mother died when he was 20 years old. His grandma passed three years later, two days after he got his license as a healer. It was like she was waiting for him to pass, before she went away and left him alone.

He got through the grief, got a tattoo of their names on his wrist to remind himself of the greatest sources of love and faith in his life. His mother’s insurance money only lasted long enough for him to get an apartment in Brooklyn Heights and a job at Golden Moss, a cosmetic line. He wanted to be healer, didn’t get his license for nothing, but jobs were spare and he needed the quick money. His life has been on a standstill since then.

Steve takes a deep breath, and reaches out.

As expected, the magic shields surrounding the facility are only created to prevent hollow magic (long time addicts lose the ability to use regular magic, and the staff still needs to be able to reach outside the facility’s perimeters in case of emergency or consultation), and Steve reaches out for Sam first.

 _\- Help me,_ is the first thought he hears. - _Help me, help me, help me, help me, help me, it hurts, it hurts, pain, pain, pain, pain, help me, help me, help me._ _Samuel. Samuel Wilson. Sam. Sam, it’s Steve,_ Steve tries to call out, but Sam’s thoughts of anguish deafen the harpy and after several hours of quietly listening to Sam’s desperate whimpers, Steve has to disconnect.

He shifts his focus.

\- _Bucky?_ Steve calls out. There is a moment, but then his head fills with the vision of a dark underworld, lights shining above the surface, Bucky’s cold, restless body swimming in circles.

\- _Steve_! Bucky replies. – _Where are you? Nobody is telling me anything. Did you get injured during the attack?_

In pure relief, Steve sags. – _Bucky, Sam was hurt. I’m in confinement_

_\- Where?_

_\- A hollow magic rehabilitation facility._

There’s a moment of silence.

 _\- That was you_? Bucky asks, and Steve can sense the merman’s emotions of disbelief, horror, before Bucky pushes them aside.

 _\- Honestly, I don’t know,_ Steve replies. – _I saw Sam fall and I woke up here. They showed me the tape._

_\- What -_

The door is slammed open and Steve cringes when the lights are turned on, his grasp on Bucky flickering away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Humiliated at the treatment but not really feeling entitled to protest it, he stares at the wall and tries to help by directing his body subtly.
> 
> “Quickly, give me a list of your enemies,” the nurse whispers as she’s scrubbing his back.
> 
> “Excuse me?” Steve asks.
> 
> The nurse looks at him like he’s dumb and then looks at the door. Grabbing a piece of her dark hair, she does a pulling motion and –
> 
> The spider web unravels from her face smoothly, revealing full lips, green eyes and straight red hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for body horror in this chap! Nothing explicit, but still, be aware.

The next day, when Steve still hasn’t emitted any bad energy or done any attempts at hollow magic, they loosen the straps and pull out his catheter, which is a relief and humiliating at the same time. He still can’t leave the room, so after he has visited the toilet and washed himself, he paces the floor. There is no window in the room as expected. Healing architecture and all that: don’t look out, look within and find the answer in yourself. What hollow magic does to you.

When the sunlight starts to gradually fade, a shutter in the wall Steve previously didn’t notice starts rolling down, just as the lights turn off. A little restlessly he nears the shutter, only to realize it’s not a dumbwaiter with food.

It’s a window.

There are bars in between, and the room in there is dark as well. Steve walks closer to the bars, but keeps a healthy distance. He reaches out with his senses, and then pulls back abruptly when an overwhelming smell of copper meets him. Steve can't see anything, but he feels another presence.

“Hello,” a man greets from the other room. He sounds toneless and unsurprised.

“Hello,” Steve hesitantly returns the greeting.

“Who are you?”

Rule of thumb his mom taught him: everything your body is composed of is valuable and therefore even more vulnerable. Your body is a temple to your soul; without it you’re bound to nothing. So burn whatever was once a part of your body; your hair, your skin, your nails. Flush out your blood, let your tears dry on your face. Never eat anything if you don't know where it comes from, and most of all: don’t give your mother’s greatest gift away easily to strangers.

“Lucas,” Steve lies. “You are?”

“Robert,” the man replies. “How long you’ve been in?”

“Since yesterday,” Steve replies. “I didn’t know you could talk with other patients.”

“This is not a hospital!” the man suddenly roars.

Steve steps back.

“I’m sorry,” Robert mutters.

“It’s okay,” Steve accepts.

“I’ve been in here, alone, for some time now,” Robert explains. “I only did it once. Or twice.”

Steve looks at his hands. The strong smell of copper tells Steve it might’ve been more than once or twice.

“I hate them, they took everything from me,” Robert whines.

_Snikt._

“Robert?” Steve asks, when hearing the sound of a blade being drawn.

“Just one time,” Robert whines. “Just one more time.” And then there’s the sound of … sawing? Like the blade is steadily cutting through something elastic. There’s the sound of dripping and then Robert grunts, chewing something loudly.

“What are you doing?” Steve asks in alarm, the instincts of a healer kicking in. He rushes to the bars, standing on his tiptoes to see well. Robert is a skinny, tall man with a long mane of white hair. The white tattoos stretching over his skin like the lymph system tells Steve that this man used to be a wizard of the light. Steve can’t properly see his face, with Robert being crouched, making his hair cover his face features. He’s chewing and sucking on whatever is in his mouth, grunting and growling like it excites him. His lanky shoulders are shaking. The swiss army knife is on the floor, and the skin on his lower arm is bleeding vigorously, a large chip of its skin missing.

“Robert!” Steve shouts, and Robert looks away, and pulls out the knife again.

And Steve stares in absolute horror as Robert starts cutting in his kneecaps, movements swift and frantic until a piece of skin comes loose. Robert grabs the patch, red and slippery with blood and puts it in his mouth. Steve winces as Robert starts chewing, blood dripping down his chin.

Dizzy, Steve crouches and retches. He tries to throw up, his stomach curling and wringing in on itself, but he hasn’t had anything to eat for too long. Heaving, he has to look away, even if he hears his mother internally apprehend him for showing disgust in the face of sickness.

“Robert, don’t do that,” Steve tries, whispers through his dry throat. “Robert, don’t consume yourself. Robert.”

When there’s no reply except the chewing and grunting, Steve starts to chant a soothing spell. He doesn’t do it to help, he just wants the sound of chewing to stop and for his stomach to stop turning.

It’s a spell he has trained many times with his mother. It’s called “Earth” and is the foundation of any healing spell. It’s a basic spell, the starting point of many, and the repetition of it makes something in Steve calm down.

He continues long after Robert has stopped eating and even gone to sleep. He goes through them all. The Rain, the Sun, the Sprout and he’s in the middle of the Circle, when some medical staff let themselves into Robert’s room. They tie the patient to a bed, and knock him out with an injection, and Steve watches through the bars with big and curious eyes.

They patch up the wounds and provide him a drip, before mechanically beginning to undress him and bathe him.

“Is he alright?” Steve asks.

One nurse looks over his shoulder, nametag saying Maynor. His defensive black and red tattoos are stark on his chubby face, and he frowns. “No, kid,” he says. “Reynolds is a long time user. Not likely he ever gettin’ out of here.”

Steve stares at him and then at Robert. His eyes are closed, face aged more than his body indicates him being. “How long has he been shooting up?” Steve asks.

“11 years or so,” the man answers. “Of course you’re never gonna convince him that. Da hollow has been making his brain a stew.”

“And rottin' his teeth,” the other nurse comments while brushing Robert’s teeth, the toothbrush quickly becoming bloody.

“So you’re keeping him here until he’s healthy?” Steve asks.

“Nah, this fella is probably a goner,” Maynor answers. “He’s gotten to the point where he’s eating nothing but himself, because he can taste the traces of hollow magic in his blood.”

Looking at his hands, Steve sinks. What if he’s like Reynolds? What if he is a hollow magic user, and he has just suppressed it?

“So, what you’re in here for, kid?” the dentist nurse asks.

“Hollow magic abuse,” Steve answers, knowing that they already know. “I don’t remember ever using it though.”

“Well, get off it while you’re not in deep,” Maynor advises. “Da hollow has a hard time letting go of its users. You’ve been doing some fancy spells in here too, I don’t think it has too tight of a grip on ya. You are nurse?”

“Healer,” Steve answers. “Never been on the field though.”

“I see,” Maynor nods and the nurses both straighten up. They tighten the straps on Reynolds and take away his knife, putting it in a plastic bag. “Get out of here when you can, kid. The world is in great need of healers right now.”

They leave.

\----

Hours later, after Steve has stared at the wall and contemplated and regretted everything, his door is opened. There’s a small, muscular woman in the door, dressed like a nurse.

“Shower time,” she informs, lifting a Taser stick and throwing him some cuffs shaped like large cups. “Get these on. Slow.”

Steve picks up the cuffs and puts his hands inside each. They snap closed automatically. Immediately he feels his inner core of magic dim, like a flame in the wind struggling to stay alight. He knows it’s for her safety, so he tries not to take it too much to heart. She attaches the Taser stick to the cuffs, and directs him out of the door. They walk through two halls, before reaching a large room with flat, but broad small stall, the stall’s walls made out of transparent glass.

The nurse attaches the stick to the ceiling, making his arms come up, and she clinically undresses him by unzipping the sleeves, before taking the stick again and poking him into the shower stall. He stands there hopelessly with his hands bound, and she mechanically takes the shower head and hoses him down, scrubbing his body roughly with soap afterwards.  

Humiliated at the treatment but not really feeling entitled to protest it, he stares at the wall and tries to help by directing his body subtly.

“Quickly, give me a list of your enemies,” the nurse whispers as she’s scrubbing his back.

“Excuse me?” Steve asks.

The nurse looks at him like he’s dumb and then looks at the door. Grabbing a piece of her dark hair, she does a pulling motion and –

The spider web unravels from her face smoothly, revealing full lips, green eyes and straight red hair.

“Natasha?” he whispers, staring at his roommate disguised in the uniform of a nurse.

“Steve,” she says, and wraps her thin, muscled arms around him, not minding that he’s wet. Then she pulls away, and shakes him roughly. “Did you use hollow magic, Steven? Did you?”

“I don’t think so,” Steve mutters, looking down, shaken by her mistrust and anger.

“Don’t answer me like that, do you know how serious of a sentence you have hanging over your neck?” she snaps.

“Natasha, honestly, I don’t remember anything,” Steve tries again and then freezes. “Wait, what sentence?”

“How about you tell me about your enemies first,” Natasha overrides him, turning around to get him a towel and wrapping it around his shoulders.

“I don’t have any,” Steve says, knowing how badly that sounds. “Except the occasional bully, I guess?”

She looks at him, and he hates it, because he can tell she’s trying to decipher if he’s lying. He knows she’s good at that, just like he knows how she’ll abandon him once she knows he did it. Natasha is in many ways kind, but Siberia has made it easy for her to leave what’s only dragging her down, disregarding sentimental value.

Steve tells himself it’s wise to let her go. She deserves it. And it doesn’t matter that every time she’s in New York Steve playfully tries to guess her job, or that she steals his clothes or cuddles on the couch with him or always picks his chicken apart for him.

“How did you get in here?” he asks her frowning.

“Peggy let me know about what had happened,” she says. “I’m undercover, since SHIELD won’t let me interrogate you.”

He stares at her. “So you don’t have permission to be here?”

She doesn’t answer him.

He stares down. “So you _are_ SHIELD. Funny how I’m literally surrounded by –“ He stops himself, and her eyes widen as she realizes the same thing as him.

“Makes sense,” she says. “You’re roommates with me, the ex-boyfriend of the Director, Sam is a chief of the Guardians and Bucky is a lieutenant.”

Steve shakes his head. “No. None of you are ranked high enough or close enough to me for it to make sense to sabotage me.” He meets her eyes. “It makes more sense that I suppressed using hollow magic. Robert did.”

She frowns at him. “We’ll get you out of here, Steve, don’t worry. And don’t think about Reynolds. They intentionally room him with first timers so they become too scared to try hollow magic again.”

“Well, it’s working,” Steve snaps. “I need to stay here. We need to make sure I’m not a danger to other people before we do something drastic.”

“You’re not a danger,” Natasha whispers huskily, her big green eyes staring at him.

Steve sends a smile her way. “Search my apartment for signs. I may have been hiding something. I know you know about the key in the chest. Just drop one of your hairs in the hole, and it should unlock. On the roof of our building, there’s a small room for guardians, which I’m allowed to use. Check out Golden Moss, the library, anywhere where I’ve might’ve made connections.”

She sighs and hands him his clothes. When they’re out on the hall again she goes back to handling him roughly and locks him into his room without blinking.

\----

Thankfully, the next week Robert is restrained and Steve gets to sleep through most of the nights. He gets used to the food, and Robert’s mumbling. It’s not so bad. Robert’s nurses are chatty and Steve gets to practice his chains of spells. Robert mostly forgets that Steve exists, until the tenth day, where Robert awakens him from an afternoon nap. “Lucas?” Robert is calling out for him.

Steve sits up and stares at the bars. Robert is nowhere to be seen, so he looks at the ceiling instead.

“Hey, Lucas!” Robert repeats, this time excited. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure?”

“What are you scared of the most?”

Steve turns his head, and almost jumps out of his skin. Round red irises are staring at him on the other side, hands clenching the bars between them. Steve’s empty stomach clenches and he feels repulsed and nauseous.

 _He’s sick,_ his mother’s voice reprimands him. _Don’t ever turn your face away from the sick._

“Losing my world, I guess?” Steve hesitantly answers. “My friends being dead?”

“You don’t have any family?”

“Nope.”

“What do you fear besides that?”

Steve thinks it through and contemplates what Robert is going to use the information for. Concluding that hollow magic doesn’t need any help finding his true fears anyway, he goes with it: “Vacant houses.”

Robert narrows his eyes. “Are you kidding me?”

“Hey, you asked.”

“Why would you fear that?”

Steve shrugs, and lies down again, looking at Robert through the dark. “There’s something scary about them, you know. Especially when they’re the only house in the middle of nowhere. It’s just sad and scary to know that something so ghostly and so scary was once filled with life. Sociality. Warmth. It’s scary to know that someone or some people had to leave. Just leave it all as it was. They didn’t sell it, didn’t rebuild it, didn’t even burn it to the ground. They had to just abandon it like it was, or that something came that made them run. And now only the shell is left.”

Robert considers the answer, before sliding away from the bars. “That’s stupid.”

Steve shrugs. “Doesn’t make it any less true. What about you?”

“Addiction,” Robert provides. “Dependence. Being in a cage that is your own body. Lust. Temptation.”

Steve plays along. “Why?”

“Look at me!” Robert screams, his face abruptly in front of the bars again, red eyes glowing.

“I am,” Steve calmly answers.

“I’m a monster,” Robert whispers.

\----

Steve is looked over by a healer and they conclude his body has been clean since the incident on Brooklyn Bridge and he’s allowed to go outside. Steve gratefully takes the bracelet they give him, puts it on and is escorted by two nurses to the facility’s garden.

He thinks the garden was beautiful once. Might even become beautiful again one day. There are rows of wilted, once colorful flowers. Sapphire tulips, white roses, blood red cornflowers, curry yellow puppies. The smell of copper and hollow magic overshadows the smell of the wilted flowers. The grass is yellow and dry, pressed flat to the earth. Steve sighs, and looks up. The sky looks weirdly artificial. Blue and clear, yet so far away. After having scrutinized it for a second, he realizes it must be the hollow magic shield.

He sits down on the grass, and tries to sense the pulse of the earth. It’s weak, barely holding on, and it doesn’t take much to realize it’s only the effects of a magical energy core that has kept the earth alive.

He feels around in his own core. He has power enough to get some earth nymphs into this area.

He opens his mouth and softly starts singing. Bucky had always teased him about his voice, but Bucky is used to the songs of sirens. Steve has a decent voice, but only because the practice of singing is valuable when it comes to communicating through magic. Earth couldn’t see. But it could hear and it hears better than even the wind.

So he starts singing one charm after the other, and the earth warms up underneath him. Twin voices join him as he senses two nymphs join him in his song. Old. Possessive of this earth, even though the hollow magic chased them away. He feels the flowers straighten around him, and he follows the pattern of the sapphire tulips with his eyes, watches the blood red cornflowers. Their seeds gather in their crowns, and flies out all at once, and Steve is overwhelmed by it, so much he has to close his eyes to focus. At last he can feel the plants coming alive, the nymphs helping him along before settling in the earth even though it won’t be long before the hollow magic drives them out again.

He opens his eyes again, and watches the flowers sway in the wind. He can sense the streams of bees on the way. The garden will be alright, at least for a little while. He walks along the continuing bloom of the roses, watching the row flourish all the way to the oak trees.

And then Steve sees him.

He hadn’t noticed him before, curled together like a shadow along the black stem of an oak tree. The oak tree has unfolded, green leaves swaying in the wind, letting deformed spots of light through its crown.

It’s a young man, a couple of years older than Steve. His body is adorned with body paint in intricate patterns, mostly red. A moment of inspection tells Steve they’re actually alchemy magic, and the body jewelry contains enhancing charms in them. The last thing Steve notices is the mask.

It’s organic.

Black like the feathers of a raven, it’s wrapped around his face like a cloth, covering the entire region of his lower face. His jaw, ears, mouth, nose and chin. It looks like it’s made of tree or creased silk, smoothly polished and hard looking, with the organic lines of a tree stem. It has formed nicely around his facial features, like it has always been growing there.

“Are you alright?” Steve calls out, worried if it’s a patient he might’ve spooked, but the guy smells nothing like a hollow magic user.

The man doesn’t react, and Steve carefully steps forwards. He focuses and the guy’s aura flares up. Like Steve suspected, the guy isn’t a hollow magic user.

“Are you a visitor?” Steve inquires, and the man lifts up his hand and taps at the mouthpiece.

Steve nods. “Sorry."

\- It’s okay, the guy signs. – Who are you?

“I’m a patient,” Steve answers.

The man tilts his head, and almost abruptly settles down among the flowers. – You’re the guy from Brooklyn Bridge?

Steve also sits down in pure courtesy, but still at a distance. Instead of answering, he combs the flowers with his fingers and watches one lean against the palm of his hand. “Word gets around fast,” he settles on.

\- Even for an experienced hollow magic user the attack was impressive, the man notices neutrally.

“I guess,” Stevee replies just as neutrally, because it’s not a compliment.

He hears a door open behind them, and abruptly feels the man’s arm lie itself around his shoulder, tugging him in.

“Oh,” Maynor says, his lips stretching out in a smile. “Seems like your fiancé already found you, Rogers.”

His what?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: I've forgotten to let readers know, that Red Hospital is inspired by the very real attacks in Syria.
> 
> [There are no more functional hospitals in Aleppo.](http://edition.cnn.com/2016/11/19/middleeast/syria-aleppo-airstrikes-hospitals/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fine!” Maynor says and throws up his hand. “You’re a stubborn mule, do you know that?”
> 
> “It’s been mentioned,” Steve exhales, satisfied. “Thank you, Maynor. I really believe this will be good for him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, sorry for the long break! Here's another chapter, tried to make it a bit longer. Hope you enjoy!

”I’ll let the two of you be alone for a bit,” Maynor smirks. He closes the door, winking at Steve as he does it.

Steve turns around, and stares at the black man, immediately moving away from his arm. “You’re not my fiancé?”

 _\- You sound dubious about that claim,_ the man signs, his eyes squinting as if he’s smiling. – _Are you sure I’m not?_

“Now you’re just messing with me,” Steven remarks confidently.

 _\- I’m not messing with you, you’re messing with yourself,_ the man corrects, sitting down.

“Hey, I’m apparently a hollow magic addict,” Steve says in defense. “It kinda makes one question their reality.”

\- _I think it’s alright for you to trust your sanity for now,_ the man lets him know, touching a flower with his thumb almost absentmindedly. – _We found nothing at your apartment, at your job, not even in your house in Louisiana._

“Did Natasha send you?” Steve asks.

 _\- Yes,_ the man answers. – _My name is T’Challa. I’m a counselor in the organization she works for. I’m here to provide you testimony to your innocence._

Steve looks at him. His cheekbones are high, and his eyes are large and round. His nose has a soft curve to it and is on the broader side. His eyelashes are curled and thick.

“No,” Steve disagrees. “No, that isn’t right. You can’t just declare me innocent because I appear clean and I have friends at the top.” He shakes his head. “We need to be objective about this. I could be dangerous.”

T’Challa listens carefully to this, and considers his answer for a minute, before he signs: - _She told me you might say that, and I understand. It’s very kind of you. But I have met many hollow magic users in my life, and I cannot sense one tint of it on your person, despite you being in a facility reeking of it. I’ve personally investigated your case, and as far as I can deduce, there’s no evidence of you being addicted._

“Except the video,” Steve argues. “And the witnesses. Those are pretty hard evidence.”

T’Challa considers him for a second, and Steve crosses his arms.

 _\- I’m not saying you didn’t do it,_ T’Challa says. – _But perhaps there is more to this than you think._

“But right now you don’t know what I could do,” Steve firmly answers. “Even I don’t know what I can do apparently, so how could you? Or Natasha? Or Peggy? Can you promise me with a 100% certainty that I’m not gonna get any of these… episodes again and won’t hurt any innocent people?”

T’Challa shakes his head. – _I’m afraid not._

Steve smiles, and why is he feeling so satisfied about staying locked up in here? “I appreciate the effort though. I’m glad people are really looking into this instead of throwing me into a jail cell.”

T’Challa shrugs. His aura is throbbing softly, like soft foamy water running down.

“So what are you?” Steve asks. “Or rather, where are you from? Your sign language seems a lot different from what I’m used to.”

 _\- You understood me fine though,_ T’Challa says, his eyes squinty again. – _I’m a necromancer from Wakanda._

“Oh?” Steve thoughtfully reacts. He’s heard a few things about the necromancers in Wakanda. Originally, before humans started dying, Wakanda sold vibranium at sky high prices unconditionally. In the beginning, when nature started taking herself back, they sold the vibranium cheaply for protection. In the end, when humanity was going extinct at an accelerated rate, they gave it out for free. By the time magical beings came out of hiding, humanity had almost been exterminated. Magical beings and humans made a deal; humans would co-exist with the magical beings, and the magical beings would protect them against nature. Humanity has grown since then, come a long way. Still, Steve has never actually met a human.

After the Symbiosis, Wakanda needed to change their place in the world, since not a lot of magical beings were interested in vibranium. Apparently there had been an ancient history of necromancy in their religion though, and the practice became widespread among them. Their necromancy is known to be of the best quality, and the least likely to disrupt any harmonies or balances in nature. Back in the game, Wakanda started selling necromancy services at sky high rates.

Steve looks at T’Challa’s clothes, his marks, and his eyes stop at his face. Then what is the mask for?

“So what’s going to happen now?” Steve asks.

T’Challa shrugs. - _I assume they’ll decide that we should keep the cover for now. If you’re not willing to excit this facility because you’re afraid of the danger you might become, I’ll respect that and I will not lie. That’s all I can say for now._

Steve nods. “Thank you for being so understanding. Natasha and Peggy are both a nice mix of paranoia and overprotective. It’s nice most of the time, but this is too serious for them to sweep under the rug.”

 _\- Not naïve however,_ T’Challa reminds him, meeting his eyes. – _As far as I’ve seen them, they’re excellent judges of character. They wouldn’t have all of this faith in you for nothing._

Steve doesn’t answer that. They sit in silence for a while. It’s comfortable. T’Challa feels trustworthy and so Steve automatically leans into his side and curls an arm around his waist when Maynor opens the door and says that their time is up.

\----

That night Steve dreams of a blond human lying in her bed, her hair scattered all over the pillow like seaweed on white wet sand. He dreams about dragging her out of her bed, his fist like steel in her hair, throwing her out of a green door with her screams in his head.

He dreams of an underwater base, an old ship, flat and stacked like a plate.

He dreams of ants hollering a name, fists in the sky.

_HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA, HYDRA._

He carefully gathers her research, and takes it to some place far. A small man is waiting there. He’s human, Steve is sure. But why is his face missing then? Why is it on his chest instead? Steve is handing over the research. He trusts the small, faceless man. He knows the faceless man can make his visions come true.

The man smiles. “All things come to an end. I will be done by the 19th.”

“17th,” Steve corrects him, and –

Steve wakes up in cold sweat.

For a second he thinks someone is sitting on his chest, because he can’t breathe. He clasps at his chest, and can’t feel anything. He tries to sing a relieving spell, but he can’t talk. Sweat is trailing down his forehead, and he forces himself up on his feet, intending to bang on the door for some medicine. His knees are weak and he can still feel her hair in his fist, and he’s afraid, he can feel it, he’s becoming a monster –

“Hey!” Robert shouts on the other side of the barred window. “Hey! Hey, something’s wrong! Maynor!”

Steve has at some point stopped trying to go to the door.

“Help! Help, he can’t breathe!” Robert shouts, banging on his own door until it’s busted open.

“Not in here, you big ape!” Robert exclaims and he hears Robert shove the nurse. “He can’t breathe in there!”

\----

Steve is sitting in the tub (good behavior apparently upgrades you from the hose), his arms hugging his legs. Maynor has suggesting shampooing his hair three times now, but Steve feels reluctant, and Maynor has given it up, now reading a newspaper. Steve tried to tune in to Bucky, but when Bucky seemed to be occupied, he let it go. He’s still shaky for a conversation now anyway and he couldn’t bear listening to Sam’s anguish. It’s been years since he had his last asthma attack. He has gotten good at doing the preventive spells, even better at doing the relieving ones. He has no idea why he got an asthma attack so suddenly and morbidly.

It had scared the staff a little. On paper he doesn’t use medication, and they had to make an emergency call.

“I’m getting replaced now,” Maynor announces and gets up. “You sure you don’t need help with anything else?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I’m good.”

“Want me to reheat the water for you?”

It is getting a bit cold.

“Sure,” Steve gratefully accepts, and Maynor heats up the water with a spell, before there’s a knock on the door. Maynor talks silently with the next guard, before he waves at Steve and leaves. Natasha steps in. She closes the door and locks it, carefully scanning the room for surveillance gear and when she finds nothing, she takes off her web.

He smiles crookedly at her.

“Why are you working against us?” Natasha hisses as she stomps towards him. “Do you know how hard it was to convince him to take a look at your case?”

“I don’t wanna hurt any more people, Nat,” Steve answers wearily. He knew this was coming, but right now he honestly feels too vulnerable to have this conversation. Not that he expected Natasha to hug him and say everything was going to be okay. Her eyes are too old for that. “It’s not like I like it here, alright? But I can’t leave unless I know and I’m sure that I won’t hurt other people.”

“You won’t,” she argues, but there’s no fight in it because she knows he’s right. She sighs and continues: “Thankfully, you haven’t scared T’Challa away with your stubbornness. I think it’s even an extra point to him that you wanna do what’s right, though you’re making it difficult for him.”

“Yeah, whose idea was that by the way?” Steve asks.

“Peggy’s,” Natasha answers, sitting down where Maynor sat and picks up the newspaper. “Since you have no family left. You still have her listed as your contact person.”

“This whole thing will bust,” Steve tells her. “Just one little mistake, a telepath or a seer, and they’ll know it’s a scam. And then I’ll definitely not ever get out of here.”  
  
“That’s me and Peggy’s problem,” Natasha dismisses.

Steve sighs. She’s giving him an out and he takes it. “How’s Sam?”

Natasha avoids his eyes, and that’s answer enough. “He actually asked about you.”

Suspicion eats at Steve’s stomach. “Are you for real?”

“Yeah,” she nods, and continues: “He was clearheaded for two minutes or something. He asked his nurses if you got off the bridge and how many people died and who the enemy was.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Of course, when they gave him all the reassurance, he started screaming again.”

Steve knows he shouldn’t but he feels a tiny bit more optimistic.

“Barnes is trying to set up a visit,” Natasha informs. “He’s arguing with your prosecutors that you two are family and therefore he should be allowed to visit. And of course he’s arguing with the director of this place that he should be allowed to have a portal opened.”

“He shouldn’t waste his time,” Steve says, as much as he’d die to see his jerk.

“Don’t be a martyr,” Natasha says, a sharp edge to her voice. “He needs to see you. You’re his friend.”

He closes his eyes, and lifts his pruned fingers up to his face, openly wallowing in his misery. “I miss him.”

“It’s not like you to run,” she states. There’s no sympathy in her voice, only curiosity.

Steve shrugs. “I’ve… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the isolation or something, I’ve… I’ve been getting nightmares.”

“I thought they weren’t allowed here,” she frowns.

He shrugs. He thought they weren’t allowed in here either. That was the law anyway. People in need of recovering don’t need salt rubbed in the wound after all.

“I can file a complaint,” she offers.

He shakes his head. “No, it was probably a mistake. I don’t want them to get into trouble.”

“You said nightmares not nightmare,” she questions.

“I don’t know,” he says, throwing out his hands. “I don’t know, Natasha. I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m…”

He can’t finish the sentence. He’s afraid of how she will look at him afterwards.

But she must know why he can’t leave. Otherwise she’ll just keep trying.

“I dream about killing people,” Steve admits. “The dreams… they’re so detailed. It’s scary. It’s too specific. Something is happening in my head.”

“What are you dreaming?” she asks, her face blank.

He sinks his hands into the water and counts to ten, before he starts: “The ants. HYDRA. I’m dreaming of this blond scientist. She’s a human. I want her research, but she won’t give it to me. I attack her at night. I drag her out of bed, and throw her through a green door. She’s screaming. I steal her research, and give it to a small human with no face. His face is on his chest. He wants until the 19th, but I want it done before the 17th. He’s afraid of me. They all are. _I like it._ ”

She tips her head. Her huge green eyes measure him. “Interesting.”

“No one ever told you what the group was named,” she notices out loud, slowly. She then proceeds to ruthlessly interrogate him for muddled information or forgotten details, before she abruptly starts washing him and drags him to his room.

She leaves without a word, but she’s already pulling her phone out.

\----

“My name is Steve,” Steve whispers as Robert rocks back and forth, tears streaming down Robert's cheeks.

“You idiot,” he says. “You fucking idiot, you shouldn’t have given me your name.”

“But I did,” Steve replies and against his common sense, he continues: “And I trust you with it.”

\----

Steve misses another prayer to the moon goddess.

\----

He talks with Robert regularly. It’s the first time he’s become so close to a hollow magic addict, and he’s glad, because it reminds him of a few things. That hollow magic users are still people, for one. They still have personalities and feelings not revolving around their abuse, and sure, they’re absolutely absorbed by their addiction, but that’s what makes an addiction. However, they are not addicts. They are people with addictions. And they deserve respect and not to be dehumanized.

“My girlfriend was shooting up too,” Robert confesses one night. “We used to do it together. But she didn’t get caught, like I did. She’s too afraid to visit me. I wonder what she is doing now.”

“What did you use to do together?” Steve asks. He’s drawing and he realizes how long it has been since he has done that in peace. It was before he got admitted to this facility, before work, before Grandma died. He just never had the time. And how, for once, he has all the time in the world.

“We just wanted to feel rich somehow, you know?” Robert says. “We both came from poor backgrounds. We both struggled with getting tuition money. We worked three jobs just to pay rent. We both came to New York just to get our educations. We used hollow magic to get what we wanted. In the end we just did it to feel the high.”

“How long have you known each other?” Steve asks.

Robert doesn’t answer immediately. Steve looks up towards their barred window, awaiting.

“Robert?” he finally asks.

“I don’t remember,” Robert admits, his voice panicked. “Shit. Shit. No, no, no, no, no, no –“

“You don’t remember your earliest memory of her?” Steve asks. “Or do you just not remember a concrete memory?”

“I – I don’t know,” Robert whines. “Shit. Shit. I think I gave it up.”

Steve frowns. “How does that work?”

Robert starts crying. He doesn’t talk for the rest of the night.

\----

The next time Steve bargains with Maynor. He fakes self-righteousness so hard he can almost fool himself into thinking it’s righteousness.

“You’re loco,” Maynor hisses. “You’re not taking him out. He hasn’t been on good behavior since he arrived!”

“He arrived 11 years ago,” Steve argues. “Whatever you’ve been doing so far isn’t working. Might as well let him breathe a little.”  
  
“So he can ruin your flowers?” Maynor asks, and then nods when he sees that he hit a nerve. “You and the nymphs worked hard on that garden!”

“Some other patient will ruin it at some point anyway,” Steve stubbornly argues and Maynor starts cursing in Spanish. “Both the nymphs and I know that.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to a patient how I should break the rules for another hopeless patient!” Maynor complains.

“Hey,” Steve snaps. “Sending pessimistic vibes is the last thing to do in this place.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna tell me how to feel now too?”

“Yeah, your job is making these people believe in themselves,” Steve argues. “How can they, when you’ve already deemed them hopeless?”

“You haven’t been here for as long a time as I have,” Maynor lets him know, but he doesn’t sound upset. Just disappointed. “I pour everything I’ve got into these people, and they shoot up within a month as soon as they’re out of here.”

“Because they’re sick,” Steve calmly withholds. “Relapses are bound to happen.”

Maynor glares at him and Steve glares right back.

“Fine!” Maynor says and throws up his hand. “You’re a stubborn mule, do you know that?”

“It’s been mentioned,” Steve exhales, satisfied. “Thank you, Maynor. I really believe this will be good for him.”

Maynor only grunts, and they start walking from the garden to Steve and Robert’s rooms. Steve can’t help but walk a little joyfully, and is wearing a smile when Maynor unlocks the door. Robert is sitting on the bed. He looks more clearheaded than usual. He probably hasn’t eaten his skin yet. Steve tries to squirm around Maynor, but the nurse refuses to move.

“Robert!” Steve calls out behind the nurse. “Come on, let’s go outside!”

\----

Only a third of the garden withers before Robert gets ahold of himself. They spend the rest of the time trying to repair the damage, but the nymphs are angry and don’t want to help. Robert tries to use his very rusty light powers to no success. But it’s nice to hold Robert’s hand. Feel its warmth. Notice the brown freckles on his crooked nose. Steve thinks Roberts enjoys being close to someone as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments motivate the author! Tell me your thoughts :3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> T’Challa nods, and then tilts his head, before abruptly sitting down beside Steve, and folding his arms around him. Stunned, Steve lets himself be pulled into the motion, and a second later Maynor opens the door.
> 
> “Steve,” he calls out. “SHIELD is here. They’re taking you away.”

“Rogers!”

Steve wakes up with a startle.

Maynor is standing by the door. He lifts his brows questionally. “Nightmare?”

Steve nods. His legs are paralyzed.

“Again?” Maynor exclaims, clearly upset. “ _Qué chingados,_ what is their problem?”

“Nah, nah, it’s fine,” Steve breathes as feeling finally flow into his legs. “How can I help you, Maynor?”

“Your fiancé is here,” Maynor informs him, a grin broadening out on his face.

Steve rolls around and groans.

“You get out there, Rogers,” Maynor encourages in a sugar sweet tone and Steve just knows he won’t like what’s coming next: “I break the rules for you, Steve. You can get me fired.”

Steve sits up, glaring at him. True enough: Maynor has continuously let Steve and Robert spend more time together in the garden. “Dickhead,” he grumbles and gets up, lazily putting on his slippers and the big beige patient dress.

Maynor makes obnoxious smooching sounds at him as Steve rinses his face.

They chit-chat as they walk through the hallways, and right before Maynor unlocks the door for the garden, he turns and says: “You’ve been here for four weeks already, Steve. And you haven’t had even one relapse. I’m proud of you.”

“Yes?”

“They’re thinking of releasing you. However – and you haven’t heard it from me – there’s a trial waiting for you out there. But since the investigators haven’t found a lot of evidence, I think the state will drop the charges.”

“What charges?”

“Your fiancé hasn’t told you?” Maynor asks. “Right, he wants you to focus on getting better. Silly me. They’re charging you for using forbidden witchcraft.”

“Just that?”

“To the degree of what you destroyed.”

Steve sighs and rubs his face. “Alright. No biggie. No biggie at all.” He opens the door.

“Hey, don’t tell him I said anything!” Maynor asks of him.

Steve nods and lets himself out. T’Challa is sitting in the garden, studying the withered flowers. He stands up, and holds his arms out, and reluctantly Steve walks into his embrace. He exhales as he feels the heat of T’Challa’s body, suddenly loosening up. He probably needed this. The nurses are prohibited from touching him except for what is necessary, and Robert had a hard time getting used to intimacy, because of all of the years of isolation. Today T’Challa’s wearing a sleeveless white shirt made out thin cotton and loose white slacks. The red alchemy marks look rusty. His aura seems weary, and he looks like he needs a hug too.

They keep holding each other, even when Maynor has closed the door. Steve closes his eyes and exhales and steps back. T’Challa looks at him, looking slightly worried.

They sit in the shadow of some hibiscus bushes.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks.

T’Challa’s shoulders slump down. – _You’re an odd case, Steven. I need to ask some questions today._

“Of course,” Steve says.

_\- Have you ever been in contact with hollow magic before the episode on Brooklyn Bridge?_

“No,” Steve firmly answers, and then pauses. “As far as I know.”

_\- Have any of your friends been in contact with hollow magic?_

Steve frowns. “Define ‘friend’.”

_\- Close relations._

Steve shakes his head.

_\- I need you to say it._

“No,” Steve firmly answers, because he’s sure none of them does it. He would’ve known then.

_\- Have any of your family members practiced hollow magic?_

“No,” Steve dismisses. “We’re very against it.”

_\- Your mother was a witch and a healer, am I right?_

“Yes.”

_\- And your father?_

Steve shrugs. “I never knew him. He died when I was a toddler. But he was the local druid of some coast towns in Ireland.”

T’Challa crooks his head, awaiting.

“He died in Red Hospital,” Steve hesitantly adds. “Both of them did.”

T’Challa nods. – _I’ve heard of it. Do you mind explaining the circumstances?_

“Sure,” Steve said. “As far as I know, my father was a druid of the sea. Druids mostly work as diplomats or translators between magical beings and humans, and since the locals relied on their fishing, he read the weather, communicated with the water spirits, predicted the tides. Besides druids’ rituals, they’re rarely able to actually perform magic without a medium.”

_\- Like shamans?_

“Yeah, like them,” Steve nods. “One day humans came to a village and started digging through their graveyard. Father went to make them stop. Some villagers found his body dangling from a tree the next day.”

_\- How did your mother take it?_

Steve shrugs. “It was a one night stand during a pilgrimage. My father agreed to let her have a child through his seed. She went back to the States pregnant. She found out about his death when I was 2 years old, at the next pilgrimage.”

T’Challa’s brows jump.

Steve feels a little sympathetic to T’Challa’s surprise. “Are you still very… humanly cultured in Wakanda?” he asks.

T’Challa nods. – _We’re the nation with the highest survival rate after Mother Earth took herself back. I guess some culture must’ve remained. I’ve certainly been surprised with the simplicity of various creatures’ mentalities since I left._

Steve shrugs. “I think that’s a good thing. Humans tend to make things more complicated that it is. They want to accomplish so many things. They have a lot of dreams. That’s a good thing; it's driven them forwards. But rarely they seem to just… live and be present in the reality they’re in. Witches rarely settle down with anyone but the moon goddess; and it’s a disaster when they do fall in love. Her closest relationship was with the moon goddess, and the gift bestowed on her from the moon goddess was me. My father was a druid. He couldn’t care for a child; he cared for people in general. He didn’t need a heir or his bloodline to continue, since druids are chosen.”

T’Challa nods. – _I guess I’ll never get used to how brutally logical that seems._

Steve smiles and nudges T’Challa’s shoulder. “I know a lot of human descendants feel that way. I bet my ancestors felt that way as well.”

 _\- You’re a human descendant_? T’Challa asks.

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. “Our legacy was completely forgotten by the time Earth took herself back. We started awakening half a decade after Earth erupted.”

 _\- Your kind were early_ , T’Challa notices. – _How did your ancestor live before humanity?_

Steve squints, trying to recall the details. “My father’s kind went quietly when the Romans forbade the practice, but my mother’s kind didn’t go down without a fight. At that point we had features that made us distinguishable to other humans though. Our nose were pointy, our eyes big and we didn’t have pupils. But we rarely practiced offensive magic, and we never minded humans existence. We didn’t last in the end.”

_\- So what was your role as witches?_

“Tying people together, I guess,” Steve informs. He doesn’t know where T’Challa is going with all of this. Perhaps he’s creating a profile? Or maybe he’s just asking for knowledge. It’s not rare for foreigners to ask about your kind’s history; when you’re from the city, you naturally get to know a little bit about everyone, but if you’re from the countryside or overseas, all of those kinds and clans must be overwhelming.

Steve continues: “We tried to first of all keep our habitat healthy and strong. We made sure the different kinds of magical beings didn’t fight over territory, and that all parties had the help of a healer. We made sure there was a population growth, and that there was no bloodshed. But when Christianity started growing as a religion, we started hiding. It had always been difficult for us to manage humans. They were trigger-happy. But they started to come to us less and less, until our existence was either forgotten or scorned upon. In the end when the witch-hunts began, we adopted the fairies’ system of changelings. We mixed ourselves with humans until our kind was completely integrated with the humans.”

_\- And when Mother started taking herself back, you started awakening?_

“As far as I’ve heard,” Steve shrugs with a crooked smile. “Wasn’t there.”

T’Challa nods. – _And how did your mother die?_

Steve looks at him, his throat involuntarily closing. He never knew his father. He would’ve liked to, but he didn’t. He knows he was a good man, and that’s what Steve has. But mother… mother raised him. Mother fell asleep with her head and arms resting on his bedside when he was sick. Mother, who spent years teaching Steve how to fix his blindness towards colors. Who straightened his spine, took him to all the meadows and rivers and taught him how to talk to all spirits, nymphs, fairies, and magical beings alike. To collect the right plants and flowers, treat them with care.

He inhales deeply, and thinks of tall trees in the early white morning, looking blue and ethereal. Thinks of red fish swimming through black water, leafless trees reflected upon it. He thinks of forest floors covered with white anemones, looking like snow. He thinks of Bucky’s figure in the river at sunset, his skin dyed in subsuming sun rays, his eyes huge and blue, arms and shoulder naked. His golden-silver-pink spotted tail floating among the ripe bulrush plants.

He thinks of his first kiss, the unsentimental peck on his lips. How Steve’s lungs closed and gills appeared on his neck, as air became something he couldn’t inhale anymore. Bucky took him down, down the riverside. Steve felt so weightless and free in the water. The world had looked so different down there. Clean and green. The water had been so clear.

He thinks of the pressure in his ears the first time Sam had flown him up, up. How the air had thinned and the temperature had dropped, but Sam’s breathing and calming voice had remained steady and even. How it felt to touch a cloud; it was ice cold and wet and yet like air. Sam’s red silky wings had swallowed him, enfolded him, like rose petals as Sam had dived, Steve screaming like a stuck pig the whole way down.

Both of those times Steve had done something his mother would’ve killed him for doing. “If you belonged in the air, you’d have wings,” she used to argue. “If you belonged in the water, you’d have gills. It’s too dangerous. If you must go to other habitats, transfigure, but do not go to environments your body was never meant to handle. It’s dangerous, Steven.”

He hadn’t listened to her, and he doesn’t regret having done it. He took a chance, trusted in a way witches weren’t supposed to do.

“Fire,” he at last responds. “They dragged her out of our house. Hung her up. Killed her patients and burned her to death like the Christians used to do.”

T’Challa grimaces. - _The humans’ goals were to get rid of magical beings’ support system, among other things, the healers and doctors._

Steve nods. “They themselves heal crazily fast. They form scabs in hours, recover from broken bones in months. Infections, diseases, they either grow immune over time or they recover. That’s why they have survived so much. But we’re not like that. Healers are the magical beings' spine.”

T’Challa nods, and then tilts his head, before abruptly sitting down beside Steve, and folding his arms around him. Stunned, Steve lets himself be pulled into the motion, and a second later Maynor opens the door.

“Steve,” he calls out. “SHIELD is here. They’re taking you away.”


	5. Chapter 5

Steve doesn’t even get to say goodbye to Robert. T’Challa jumps to his feet, and rushes Steve back into the facility. Peggy and Natasha are waiting in the lobby, and agents in a matter of seconds surround Steve. The guards, Peggy and Natasha escort T’Challa and Steve to a black van. Steve doesn’t even get to realize that he’s just left rehab and this is the first time in four weeks he isn’t within their custody. Peggy pulls him inside, and they close the doors. Immediately the van starts driving. When Steve had learned about SHIELD, he had imagined something like the police. Strictly speaking, SHIELD was law-enforcement, with specialities in counter-terrorism and espionage. But this looks much more… severe and secret than what he has known of it.

“What’s going on?” Steve asks, when neither Peggy nor Natasha tries to explain.

“Susan Storm was kidnapped,” Peggy answers, looking out of the black-toned windows. She’s looking awfully formal, her back straight, her hands folded on her lap. Her elf ears are shaking attentively, and her black dwarf eyes are looking at everything outside, yet seeing nothing. “She was a human, who researched how magic manages to manipulate energy and change its form.”

Steve has a feeling where this is going.

“Have you dreamt anything else?” Natasha asks.

Steve puts his face in his hands.

“Steve, not now,” Natasha sharply reprimands. “Tell me if there’s anything else you’ve dreamt. It’s four hours till midnight and then it’ll officially be the 17 th .”

“It’s too late,” Steve replies. “They’re changing the blue lasers into blue rays that can make anything disintegrate.”

“Where are they attacking?” Natasha asks.

“I don’t know,” Steve whispers. “I…They didn’t speak English, I don’t remember the language, but… but whoever I was in the dream. He understood what they were saying. There was a cube. A blue cube made up light and crystals. The ants, his army, HYDRA, they… they were marching through forests.”

“What time was it?”

“It was afternoon,” Steve tries. “I think. It was raining. They’re heading towards a city. I don’t... I don’t think I remember anything else.”

“It’s okay,” Peggy says.

Natasha ignores her and continues to needle Steve for details, until Steve feels tired and used. She leaves him alone without a sound afterwards, staring out of the window. He thinks about how it must be for Natasha, being an Arachnida. He doesn’t know much about them - not a lot of people do. They are creatures living in the cold, dark caves in Siberia. There had been tales of them, but no one had known for sure if they even existed. Then a few years ago, a clan of female Arachnida had shown up in South-America and their existence had been confirmed. Supposedly they could transform into huge, poisonous spiders, but no one knew for sure. Steve doesn’t know what drove Natasha here or what drives her to fight for the Symbiosis. Steve doesn’t really know a lot about Natasha, really. 

\----

They stop at a tall building in the middle of suburbia. T’Challa goes away to buy Steve some necessities and Natasha goes to report. Steve takes the elevator to the roof, and walks to the edge, looking out. The night is only a soft murmur. Balls of white fire light up the streetlamps, and the linear lines and complicated labyrinth of them glowing in the dark, makes the city look like a computer chip. The cars and wagons are soundless, only the voice of the nocturnal magical creatures making sounds. He thinks about how it must’ve been for the mythical beings, when they reclaimed the land humans had so steadily taken. How hard the humans had been at the end of what humans’ called the “Apocalypse”; their eyes  are said to have been stone, their skin red and flaring with rash, bodies skinny and worn out. Even their healing hadn’t been able to keep up with what nature had thrown at them. Even the mythical beings, who had waited so long to reclaim their land, had in the end not been able to watch humanity get wiped out. They had helped humans survive the rest of Mother’s Wrath, fix what had been broken, which had been beneficial in the end, since Steve couldn’t imagine a world without all that technology. Humans and magical beings working together, living in harmony and in advantage to each other, had in the end been called Symbiosis. 

But the humans’ world had been filled with concrete, metal and glass. They purchased plastic flowers; wanting to be close to nature, and yet not being able to take care of it, share it, use it without draining. They had seemed so out of touch, so scared, so lonely. Steve has never met a real human before, but he hopes humans like the Symbiosis as much as the magic beings  do .

“Here,” Peggy’s voice says behind him.

He turns around, and she’s holding out a cup of tomato soup. He takes it, careful not to let their fingers linger too long.

“Thank you,” he says.

Goddess. Steve has had to worry about so much that he had never considered how hard it would be to be alone with her  like this. He hasn’t seen her since she went to India “to work”, and before the rehab facility he had last talked to her outside Golden Moss. His reflection had been so sickly back then. His skin had been pale and swollen, like he had been lifeless in water for too long. His veins had been black and purple, close to the surface of his dull skin. The circles around his eyes were the same shade as his veins. He had been nervously plucking his eyebrows and lashes, and his golden hair had been thin and scattered with white hairs.

He had looked haunted, sleepless, like the Goddess had left him for good and for a while he really thought she had. No longer did the  Moon give him comfort, no longer did his loved ones’ touch bring him healing. His bed was always too cold, too hard. Anxiety, fear, and grief clawed at his heart all the time. He would’ve been fired if it hadn’t been because Dum Dum’s old babysitter had been a witch and he had seen her go through the same.

Peggy turns her side to him, and looks out at the city. The building they’re in is in Jersey, he belatedly realizes. He can see the black water, and the dim lavender lights underneath the water. He can see the flickers as the sea people swim by them. Their eyes were made to look through the shallow waters at nighttime, but the lights had  helped protect them against predators.

Goddes. If Bucky knew Peggy and he were sitting here together.

Being civil.

Peggy turns her head, opens her mouth. After a pause, she lowers her eyes, closes her mouth and turns away.

His heart is starting to beat faster.

It’s been a year since then. His mother had adored Peggy. So had his grandmother. One of  his grandmother’s last wishes had been for Peggy and Steve to settle down. After all, they had been together for 6 years at that point. While Steve had followed in Sarah's footsteps in never finding a successful bond, Sarah's parents had had a successful bond, despite Steve's grandfather being half witch and half human.

“You know,” Peggy begins, like he knew she eventually would, and Steve tenses. “I’m sorry.”

It’s an opening. He can interpret it as her being sorry about how they ended or her being sorry about how catastrophic his life has become.

“We don’t have any answers yet,” Steve plays it safely. “You shouldn’t be so quick to deem me innocent. You’re biased.”

Shit. He’s an idiot. Foot meet mouth.

“I know I am,” Peggy laughs, and… Her smile, the white teeth, the way her eyes crease together, the deep rose of her lipstick. Her date night color. Now that he’s paying attention, he can smell her perfume. Roses, like always. Alberic Barbier and Abraham Darby, mixed with lemon-scented water and a bit of jasmine. “I have been from day one. But I’m the Director, and currently HYDRA is the most important thing on my list. Even the human hate groups are not the priority anymore.”

He nods. “HYDRA needs to go,” he agrees.

Peggy leans her body down on the railing.

He sips the tomato soup. It’s sweet and warm.

“Do you ever think of me?” she asks. “Sometimes?”

He exhales. Of course. “What I really like about you, Peg, is nothing stops you from getting what you want, when you want it. But there are some things you’re not allowed to want. That you shouldn’t try to keep.”

The weeks after their breakup, it had been hell. He found out that she worked for SHIELD, that she hadn’t just abandoned him because she was afraid of the bond or changed her mind. She had been saving lives, and he knows that’s a good thing, but at the time it had only made things more complicated. He couldn’t even resent her in peace. Thank Goddess for Sam, Bucky, and Nat; they helped him through all of it.

He can feel Peggy watching him.

So he drops all pretenses and turns to leave. Just as he reaches the door, she says: “You know, you were the one who broke us up.  _ You _ left  _ me _ .”

He stops and turns around. “Your point being?” he forces himself to coldly respond.

“Why?” she asks. “I still love you. I know you still love me too.”

“It doesn’t… doesn’t work that way.” The words stumble.

Both the elf and the dwarf in her sense the weakness like sighting an old or wounded deer during a  hunt, or sensing softness or rust in metal.

“Is it the bond?” she asks. She walks towards him, calmly. Her thoughts are probably not as cool as she seems. He knows she’s always been good at imitating sturdiness when she was emotionally affected. “We don’t need it, Steve. We don’t need it to be together.”

“I’m… Peggy, I’m a criminal, an addict.”

“I don’t care.” Peggy narrows her eyes. “I know you, Steve. We were together for so long. I would’ve known if you were practicing it.”

His lips thin. “I can’t when our bond is broken, Peggy. We had one chance, and I can’t rebuild that with you.”

“You can’t even try?” Her voice is suddenly closer and he can feel her breath on his forehead. He looks down, and feels so weak. He misses her, craves her. The broken bond hasn’t changed any of that. But the way their severed bond had affected him. How his body had shut down.

“We’re strong,” she says, lifting his chin, making him look up at her. “But even stronger together. I… There hasn’t been anyone since you. I’ve tried, but I know you’re the one I want by my side. You left, but we’re together now,  and… I’m not going to miss my chance again.”

“Peggy,” he tries, his voice almost a whine with hopelessness and anger. “I can’t. My body can’t accept you anymore.”

“Try,” she pressures him.

He meets her brown eyes. She looks reassuring, strong – like Pegs. As flexible and unmanageable as a river, as unmovable and strong as a mountain. Her dark waves are rolling down the pale hill of her shoulder. She’s wearing a black, strapless blouse. Her lips almost look mauve in the moonlight, and when she catches him looking, she leans in –

“No,” Steve speaks, his voice only a soft whisper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

_ I don’t want to be hurt again. _

“Try,” she whispers. Her breath smells like oranges and Earl Grey.

He wants to. He wants it to happens, so he lets it.

She leans over the rest of the distance, and their lips meet. And for a moment it is wonderful. His body tickles, his palms get sweaty. He’s excited, happy. Her lips are so soft and warm. He knows he has longed for her. He has missed her so much.

Then he feels ice grow from his lips to hers. Her lips are suddenly cold, foreign and dangerous. He feels disgusted that he has even touched them.

Peggy sways and falls down on her knees. Her lips are black and the skin around her mouth is fading to black. She holds her mouth with her hands, and Steve stares at  her in pain, and for a  moment - a tiny moment - he enjoys it. He enjoys seeing her writhe,  seeing her  finally understand what he went through for so many  months while she was in India saving people, not feeling a thing while Steve felt like he was dying. He knows it’s the broken bond making him feel this, making him feel like she’s dirty, unworthy. He knows the bond is just hurting from her rejection as well. He knows this is the bond’s way of protecting both of them.

Feeling like he’s going to be sick, he squeaks: “Help.”

Nothing happens, and her fingers are unfurling now. Darkness pours out like a fumy waterfall.

“Help!” he shouts.

\-----

A pathologist arrives. He takes notes even though he just said he’s seen and done this many times before. Peggy and Steve are officially separated. The pathologist goes into a long and thorough explanation of why they can’t be together, just to make it more clear than it already was. Steve should feel something, maybe regret or even more grief than he has already felt. Instead he feels empty. Bordering on non-caring.

T’Challa arrives with clothes. Steve is still on the roof; Steve’s tomato soup has gone cold, and he’s murmuring low spells for himself.

\-        _ What happened? _ T’Challa asks, sitting down beside  Steve and  handing him a sweater.

Steve takes it, not pausing his spell and T’Challa politely waits for him to finish it, before Steve  replies, “What do you know about witches’ love lives?”

T’Challa frowns. –  _ You told me your biggest commitment was with your goddess. I assume the rest of  _ _ it _ _ are rumors? _

Steve lifts a brow, and dryly  asks, “Never fall in love with a witch, they will tie you down forever, they will stalk you and be obsessed over you?”

The Wakandan man shrugs. –  _ Rumors. I don’t take them seriously. I hear that’s what happened to the god Thor though. _

“Maybe you should,” Steve breathes. “Our biggest commitment is to our  goddess , yes. But she doesn’t want us to be lonely, doesn’t want us childless. That’s why she gives us one chance to fall in love.”

T’Challa lifts his brows and looks at him. –  _ Only one _ ? he asks.

Steve nods. “Yeah. I met Peggy when we were teens. Our families were associates, and she came with her mom, who had an appointment with my grandmother in Louisiana. I knew she was the one. So I fell in love with her. Six years later we were ready to tie the knot. She said she was ready to settle down. So we started a bond at New Moon. It’s supposed to finish at  Full Moon . Her job called her away, and the distance and lack of intimacy broke the bond.”

\-        _ And what just happened…?  _ T’Challa asks, his eyes mellow.

“She thought we didn’t need a bond to be together, and I…” Steve says, his cheeks reddening as mild reproach framed T’Challa’s eyes.  “We can’t. My body is rejecting her.”

\-        _ I see,  _ T’Challa says.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought someone had told you before you faked being my fiancé.”

\-        _ I know about you and Carter’s relationship. _

Steve frowns and shoves at T’Challa. “You dick. Then why would you make me say all that?”

T’Challa’s eyes crease and he shakes with soundless chuckles. –  _ Just wanted to hear your side of the story. _

“Right,” Steve huffs. “You’re profiling me, aren’t you?”

T’Challa shrugs. –  _ Nope. Our caseworker is coming tomorrow afternoon. We have twenty hours to learn everything about each other. But I think I’m going to sleep now, and we shall resume in the morning. _

Steve stares at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

T’Challa shakes his head and Steve has a growing idea that T’Challa is enjoying all of this drama.

Steve groans, and T’Challa puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder.

After a moment T’Challa gently taps Steve’s shoulder, and Steve looks up at him.

\-  _ But your friend, J-A-M-E-S B-A-R-N-E-S, is able to visit now,  _ T’Challa tells him.  _ \- He’ll be here in half an hour if you will open a portal for him. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peggy sways and falls down on her knees. Her lips are black and the skin around her mouth is fading to black. She holds her mouth with her hands, and Steve stares at her in pain, and for a moment - a tiny moment - he enjoys it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something weird happens with T'Challa's eyes as he holds Steve's gaze. 
> 
> \- I believe you, T'Challa eventually signs. He stands up, pulling Steve up with the action. 
> 
> He reaches out for a towel and drapes Steve's shoulders with it.
> 
> Their eyes meet for a long, straining moment, and something in T'Challa's aura flickers. Steve feels his own flicker in response, but he has no idea what it was.

The apartment is plain and woody, and the three rooms huge. Natasha is there as a bodyguard, and takes the room at the foyer. While T’Challa is picking his room, Steve goes to the bathroom and paints the tub’s bottom with the tear symbol. He fills it up with water, and considers adding salt, but since Bucky tolerates both fresh- and salt water, he decides to spare himself the trouble and just sits on the toilet seat, waiting.

It’s not long before Bucky webbed fingers emerge from the symbol, and his muscled arms pierce through. Next are his broad, carved shoulders, his long dark hair curtaining his face and neck and his thick waist. He grabs the edge of the tub, and pulls his tail the rest of the way out and slings it over the edge of the tub.

Bucky is a siren and mermaid hybrid, which means that from the waist down he’s a mermaid and from the waist up he looks like a divinely beautiful human being. His tail’s iridescent scales shine in salmon, silver, olive green and lavender, his fins olive-green, all of it spotted with black spots extending all the way to his waist where his tail morphs into skin. His chest, face and arms are hairless, and his skin is too ashy to be a siren but too peach to be a mermaid. His dark hair, the biggest siren trait he has, is long and reaches the end of his elbows. His mermaid eyes are huge and black.

“Bucky,” Steve says, his voice low and Bucky wordlessly holds out his arms. Steve silently takes his clothes off, and steps into the tub. Bucky is slimy and cold, but Steve has long since gotten used to that. He leans up against Bucky’s chest, and Bucky enfolds his arms around him.

“It’s going to be okay, pal,” Bucky says, his voice husky and low. “Sam is getting coherent, and the government is going to drop the charges. You defended this city, no one is going to be able to ignore that.”

Steve nods. “Just… Let’s not talk about it. I don’t want to think about it right now.”

Bucky nods, and Steve closes his eyes. He remembers his mother telling him how giving love was the same thing as receiving love, and how the blizzard of loneliness and the thunder of depression could both be soothed by a loving touch. Either it being your mother holding your hand as you were crossing the street when you were just a child, a friend hugging you after it has been awhile, your lover kissing you after having missed them.

After a while, when Steve feels like he can breathe again, he says: “Peggy has officially been taken off my case.”

Bucky turns his head, his fingers slipping down Steve’s ribcage. “How come?” he asks, though there is an undertone of something seething in his voice.

“She tried to kiss me,” Steve answers lowly.

“Your body rejected her,” Bucky concludes.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Tomorrow T’Challa and I’s caseworker is coming. We’re going be kept under observation – no, _I_ am – in case of relapse. So we need to keep up the illusion of being together.”

“Alright,” Bucky just says. “And why were you transferred from rehab?”

Steve looks up and meets Bucky’s eyes. He sinks and looks down. “I… I did something. While on the bridge. Me and that guy, the leader of HYDRA… our minds are bound together, and when I’m asleep, we are one, like when I posses you or Sam’s bodies. Natasha has called in an insomnia professor. He’ll be here in three hours, and they’re going to try and record my dreams.”

Bucky sighs. “Shit Steve. Is there anything else I need to know?”

Steve shrugs. “People seem to think I’m innocent. Peggy, Nat, even T’Challa who doesn’t know me. They’re going to defend me and I’m not sure if it’s the right thing to do.”

Bucky pauses and considers. That’s what he loves about Bucky; the merman always seriously considers Steve’s most silly irrational thoughts. He knows Steven too well, and he knows the thoughts will keep on bothering him even if Bucky thinks it’s absurd.

“I get that,” Bucky ends up saying. “Maybe you deserve to be locked up forever. Maybe you’re unpredictable. Maybe their effort is for granted and they shouldn’t place so much trust in you. But right now, you need to focus on our goal, and that is finding out what the Hell Hydra is and what they’re going to do. New York was the first place they tried to invade, but not the last. They’re multiplying all over the world, and no one has any idea where they’re coming from. Their biggest base so far has been predicted to be in D.C. and Moscow. And get this: They’re all human. Every single one of them and there are more of HYDRA than there is of humans in the States. And nobody knows where or maybe, _when_ , the Hell they came from.”

Steve looks at him in disbelief. “They’re time travellers?”

As far as he knows they’ve had a couple of those, coming to insure humanity’s survival (which has worked well, since the travellers either came with a family or started a family. Or brought tons of human embryos in cryogenic freeze. Some humans had even been found in cryo-hibernation, some of them frozen intentionally so they could sleep past Mother’s wrath, others had been frozen down by pure coincidence (one of them was a human celebrity called Simon Cowell, who had been frozen down when he was an old man, so he could be woken up when humans found out how to extend someone’s lifespan. His life has surely enough been extended by healers, and he has a show called Magic Voice or something where he’s the judge). Humans had been vigilant and creepily efficient in their goal of ensuring their survival, if not creative.

But Bucky just shrugs. “I don’t know, pal. Either way, they’re dangerous and we need to take them down before they disturb the Symbiosis and make Mother freak out again.”

Steve meets his eyes, nodding seriously. He needed to let his issues and doubts lie for a bit, so they could concentrate on the mission. Steve was never much of a fighter – it was against his religion and everything he was taught, healers are always neutral, healers don’t pick a side, healers need to be there for everyone – but he could fight for what was right.

“Anyways,” Steve sighs, inelegantly changing the subject. “How have you been? How’s your Ma and Pa?”

“Like always,” Bucky shrugs, restlessly waving his tail. “Mom got in a fight with the coast guards. She was luring in food, and apparently it had been a human.”

Steve makes a grimace. Humans are a protected species, and she could seriously get in trouble for it.

“It’s okay, she apologized and the human apologized for nearing the sirens’ territory,” Bucky shrugs, his arm tightening slightly around Steve’s waist. “Dad is still sullen though. He says she needs to be more careful.” Bucky makes a brief horrified face. “She said that if she was the careful sort, they wouldn’t have had me.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Dude.”

“If I have to suffer, you’ll suffer with me,” Bucky declares.

They both smile a little crookedly at each other, before slumping.

“How long will you stay?” Steve asks.

Bucky makes a face. “I have to be up in four hours.”

Steve frowns at him. “Have you gotten any sleep at all?”

Bucky shrugs in that casual ‘No I’ve been fretting about you’ way, he started doing when Steve caught pneumonia for the first time and Ma had to call in two other healers to make it stay at bay.

“Go,” Steve pushes at Bucky. “I’m out now, and you can visit anytime. I can even try going to Central Park, then we can swim around a little.”

Bucky nods, and his hand tighten around the back of Steve’s head for a minute, before he lets go. Steve steps out of the bathtub, and Bucky gives him a long worried long before letting go of the edge, sinking down through the portal. The last thing Steve sees of him is his silver-olive tail disappear.

\----

Steve and T’Challa should’ve practiced before they went to bed.

They really, really should’ve practiced.

Steve was so dead on his feet the day before that he slept through sunrise, and he’s woken up when the door to his room is abruptly opened.

He jolts up, and stares. He does a quick spell on his eyes, so the colors will show up, but he’d like getting some glasses soon. It’s tiring for his eyes doing this every morning.

At the door stands a porcelain-skinned woman with charcoal black hair, altered with cinnabar red stripes. Speaking about enchanted glasses – she’s wearing them, together with a grey suit, the insides of it burgundy velvet.

Behind her, stands T’Challa’s, who’s signing with the speed of life: - _She’s our caseworker, you needed space so we slept apart –_

“Mr. Rogers,” the woman calls out, her voice forcedly cheery, her smile baring her white, sharp teeth. Of course. A vampire. Who tended to have a great sense of smell. Awesome.

“Hello,” he warily greets. “Whom might you be?”

“Your new case worker,” she smiles and he finally notices her heels as she clacks into the room, the sound throwing itself around the room. “Victoria Hand,” she keeps on smiling as they shake hands.

He blinks sleepily up at her, and then looks at T’Challa. “T… Baby could you make us some coffee?”

  * _Of course_ , T’Challa signs, and then turns towards Ms. Hand. – _She doesn’t know sign language._



Steve blinks, and then turns to her. “You’re assigned to us and you can’t even sign language?”

“I’m assigned to you, Mr. Rogers,” she corrects, her smile turning forced for a second. “That I can’t communicate with your … fiancé is misfortunate, since I have a feeling he’d be a great source of information, that’d make it easier for all of us.”

“He can hear you,” Steve sourly lets her know. “You don’t have to speak to him like he isn’t here.”

T’Challa signs something Steve can’t quite translate (‘panther’, ‘female entity/goddess’ ‘patience’ ???). – _Please stop talking. How do you take your coffee?_

“Milk and sugar,” Steve replies and then catches himself. He quickly turns to look at Ms. Hand _._ “I mean, how do you like your coffee? Milk and sugar?”

“No thank you,” she says to T’Challa, her eyes making it clear she knows something is up. She opens her suitcase and puts it on top of the covers, which still smell of Steve. She takes out a folder, and the first page as he opens it shows Steve’s pictures and a long journal. She flips the pages until she reaches a blank page. “While he’s brewing, can I ask you some questions?”

“Sure,” Steve hesitantly replies. Now? He checks the clock. She’s six hours early, and Steve hasn’t even changed out of his pajamas.

“You’re a wizard?” she asks.

“No, I’m a witch,” he corrects, all too used to people not being able to tell the difference.

She frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Wizards are humans, who can use magic like someone would use a computer,” he explains. “They use verbal spells, hand gestures or magic items to use magic. Witches don’t need that; we metaphorically have the computer inside of us. We can often use our powers just with ours minds.”

“Is that the only difference?” she asks, and looks like she’s going to laugh.

“Well, our biology is widely different too,” he dryly answers. “But whatever.”

She briefly lifts her brows, and writes something down in her folder: _Symptoms of obsessive-compulsive perfectionism._

This is going great.

“And you’re a healer?” she asks. “Any difference between that and a doctor?”

“Doctors’ treatment cater to human physiology,” Steve answers after a moment of hesitation. “They use medication and machines to diagnose and treat their patients, because humans can mostly heal by themselves. Healers use magic, and their learning caters to a wider range. But these days both healers and doctors are educated to treat most beings.”

“So no difference at all,” she hums.

“You asked,” Steve defensively says.

She purses her lips and scribbles: _Prone to anger._

Well, it’s not like either of those things weren’t true anyway. But she didn’t have to be rude about it.

“As I understand it, witches are able to manipulate energies,” Ms. Hand says. “And healers choose to do so by essentially speeding up healing processes.”

“Kinda,” Steve confirms.

“Which makes you and your kind able to use hollow magic,” she continues.

“Yes.”

“When was your last relapse?” she asks.

Steve shrugs. “Since Brooklyn Bridge, I haven’t done anything.”

“But you didn’t remember the incident, did you?” she asks.

“No,” Steve admits.

“Then who says you haven’t been relapsing without knowing it?”

“I… In the rehab facility, they could sense – “

“And the incident with Director Carter yesterday?” Ms. Hand interrupts.

“That wasn’t hollow magic,” Steve says, a little distressed.

“Could you tell me what you think it was, then?” Ms. Hand asks, her brows nearing her hairline.

Steve hesitates, clenching his arms. “I don’t want to talk about it. It was just an accident.”

“But – “

T’Challa returns and pointedly puts the black cup of coffee in front of her.

Steve exhales and closes his eyes.

Then remembers who he used to be before all of this, and that person did not break under pressure, even if the other person had hit some nerves: “I didn’t use hollow magic yesterday,” he firmly says. “What happened was private and between Director Carter and I. I’ve been surveyed by several SHIELD-agents as well as medical staff, and they can confirm that I haven’t relapsed. You can go ask the staff at my rehabilitation center for confirmation, if you want. But please do treat me with respect, when you talk to me. I want to help you as much as I can, if you’ll let me.”

Before Ms. Hand can answer, there’s a knock on the door and Natasha steps in with a middle-aged man, whose clothes is too big for him. The man is neither muscled nor thin, and his aura emits sleeplessness and self-awareness, and some deep core of something else underneath, which smells kinda like black pepper, something harsh that makes your eyes water and your nose sneeze.

“Steve,” Natasha stiffly says, eyeing Ms. Hand up and down. “This is Dr. Banner. He couldn’t get here this night because of – “

“Other emergencies,” Dr. Banner interrupts her. He treads into the room, holding out his hand and Steve stands up to greet him. “Dr. Bruce Banner, you can just call me Bruce. We’re going to go through the strongest visions you’ve had in the past and then try to put you to sleep to see if we can catch something live.”  
“Alright,” Steve breathes. “Where and when do you want to do this, and is there something in particular I have to do?”

“Well, it seems you’ve had a rough morning,” Bruce kindly smiles. “Go ahead and eat some breakfast and take a shower while I set up my equipment.”

Steve’s brows jump from surprise. This guy wasn’t a mind reader? He must have some pretty great equipment for him to be the first choice on such a delicate case.

But Steve does as instructed, and eats a sesame bagel and takes a shower.

T’Challa nervously follows him around, occasionally looking over his shoulder to estimate the level of danger of encountering Ms. Hand again, who’s inspecting their rooms.

“Something wrong?” Steve asks. They’re in the living room, and Bruce has set up a minor fort of electronic devices and screens. They can hear Ms. Hand talk to Natasha in Natasha’s room. Ms. Hand is clearly flirting with her, and Natasha seems to weirdly enough be flirting back, her voice sweet and energetic in a way, Steve knows, is fake.

  * _Our caseworker is a vampire,_ T’Challa says. – _It’s going to be hard keeping up the lie this way._



“Yeah,” Steve agrees, and continues vaguely: “There will be a lot of things lost in translation though.”

  * _I don’t think it will be below her to learn sign language though, so we have to still be aware of what we’re saying,_ T’Challa replies. – _I hadn’t expected the lie to get this far. Thankfully, Director Carter rejected her request to meet the investigator of this case._



Steve nods. Ms. Hand knowing that T’Challa was his “fiancé” and the investigator of the case would definitely be bad.

Bruce calls for them, and Steve is placed on the sofa table, which is now covered with paper sheets. Sensors are placed all over his head, and Steve stares in a mix of fascination and determination.

“The problem with mind-readers,” Bruce says as he puts sensors on Steve’s neck, wrist and lungs, “is that the content they find isn’t reliable because it’s colored by their own understanding and they, as people, are limited in their ability to observe. Whereas technology,” he pauses briefly to look at the beeping screens, “doesn’t fail. We don’t have to rely on a mind reader as a witness, and these evidences will not be picked apart in court.”

Finally Bruce sits down in front of Steve, and catches Steve’s eyes. “Seeing as you were conscious through the whole incident on Brooklyn Bridge, your brain has been recording everything, even if your mind has repressed it. What we’re going to do now is look into that part of the brain, which was recording and retrieve the memories from it. Afterwards, we’re going to record your dreams, and try to put you to sleep, and see if we can catch a look through the peephole to HYDRA.”

“But since these dreams are coming from my head, how are they more reliable than what a mind reader would’ve been able to extract?” Steve asks, meeting Bruce’s eyes.

Bruce nods. “That’s a good question. This is exercise is mainly to determine whether you’re mentally ill or if you’re deceiving us. When we’ve aware of that, we’ll continue to process your knowledge and your tie with the leader of HYDRA in a way that is appropriate to your reliability.”

Steve turns his head and looks up at the ceiling, and exhales. “At least you’re honest.”

Natasha turns off all the lights, and T’Challa sits in a chair close by. Ms. Hand is watching from the corner of the room, and Bruce fiddles with some papers, before asking: “Think about your memory on Brooklyn Bridge.”

Steve sinks and nods.

A machine starts making an unbearably loud sound, and Steve’s conscience slips underwater.

He’s standing on Brooklyn Bridge. He’s hiding underneath a veil. Sam is diving, his claws out, aiming for the leader of Hydra’s throat. The leader nonchalantly raises his gun and effortlessly shoots Sam in the wing. Sam emits a scream and swirls into the water.

Steve’s body boils. Every cell of his body quivers with rage, with the pure injustice of it. He simmers and everything seems to vibrate.

All things Steve already remembers.

The rage turns from red to black, and suddenly…

He’s reaching out a hand. It’s black all around him. The hand isn’t his own. It’s burned to pieces, his skin is flaking off, bleeding, red and yellow and white –

“Come to me.”

It’s not his voice.

The leader of HYDRA steps into his vision and walks towards him, seemingly enchanted and Steve’s making this awful whining, hungry sound…

\-----

When Steve wakes up, his body aches, his mouth tastes of blood. His body is stiff and achingly twitching and he’s breathing wetly.

“Shut it down!” he hears Peggy shout somewhere, a door slamming open. “I said shut it down!”

“No!” Steve groans. “No. No I can do this.”

They continue, even though Steve’s memories of the incident on Brooklyn Bridge are not there.

They record all of Steve’s dreams. Apparently the nightmares had kept their end of the deal with the rehabilitation facility, and the visions that had haunted Steve at night were actual telepathic contact between Steve and the leader of HYDRA.

When they’re done, Steve is wired and T’Challa pretends to escort him to ‘their’ room, where he tucks Steve into bed and goes to read some books, which are already in the room.

Steve wakes up at midnight. T’Challa is gone, and Steve stares at the wall, trying to understand what woke him up. When nothing seems out of the ordinary, he’s lays down his head again and only then sees the clawed hand tap his window.

He gets up and slowly, carefully walks to the window, wondering if this is a dream.

He slides it open and looks out.

Sam is hanging onto the side of the building.

Now don’t get Steve wrong; he has missed Sam, so much. But he has worried too, and so the first thing that comes to mind is shouting: “Are you fucking crazy?” Because Sam can’t fucking fly no more, so why the Hell is he this high up with no safety net?

Sam looks dazed, half-mad and half-sleepy. “What?”

Sam’s wing is hanging in an odd angle, like it’s trying to fold up nicely but too many nerves are cut off, so it hangs kinda sloppily.

“How the Hell did you get up here?” Steve hisses, opening the window entirely and pulling at Sam’s leg. “Get inside, what are you doing?”

Sam stares blankly then turns. “I can’t come inside. I just came to say goodbye.”

“What?” Steve whispers, horrified, and then Sam stretches his wings for take off. Clearly he’s intending to glide down to the air since the wing doesn’t seem to be able to lift him further up, and Steve makes an immediate decision to throw himself out of the window and grabbing a hold on Sam’s shoulder. Sam shouts and rapidly loses height, his wings fluttering unsymmetrically trying to keep them up in the air.

“Let go!” Sam shouts.

“No!” Steve shouts back.

Steve clenches his hands into the soft feeling of Sam's suit of feathers, and curls his legs around Sam's waist. Sam cries out as they start to half fall, half float down. The night air is cold and humid, and the streets are vacant, only the sound of Sam's wings, one flapping wildly trying to compensate for the one which jerks rather than flaps. Somewhere Steve is wondering how the Hell Sam even got up on Steve's floor when he clearly has a hard time even lifting his own weight.

Fortunately, the wildly flapping wing makes them fall crookedly and then land on a roof made of enhanced hay. Sam flips last second so he lands on his back and folds his wings around Steve as they roll down the roof and falls down into the street. Despite Sam's tries at protecting them, Steve still hits his neck and head as they land on the pavement. Sam groans, his body curling around Steve, and Steve's fingers bore into his wings, his knees get tight.  
"Don't leave," he whispers. "Don't leave Sam, we can work it out. I will protect you, I swear I will take care of you."  
"Steve," is Sam's only reply, his tone flat.  
Steve closes his eyes, his head throbbing and even though he fights unconsciousness he must've fallen in at some point, because he wakes up when someone is softly smacking his cheeks. He blares his eyes open, and realizes to his horror that Sam is gone, and it's T'Challa's face that’s leaning over him.  
"Sam," Steve groans. "Sam. Sam, where is he?"  
T'Challa can't answer, because he's poking Steve's body for injuries. Finally he takes out his phone and texts someone. One moment later, two sets of feet are hastily nearing them.

"Good that you didn't move him," he hears Bruce says. He inspects Steve's neck and back, and after a moment he apparently deems it safe to move Steve, because T'Challa is suddenly lifting him.

"He's incredibly lucky," Bruce notices. "Even a witch would have walked away with some heavy lesions."

"Sam," Steve insistently says. "Sam broke my fall."

"Sam is in the hospital, Steve," Natasha says, sounding tired.

"No," Steve says. "No, he tapped my window while I was sleeping. He said he came to say goodbye."

"And you jumped out of the window to follow him," Bruce sympathetically says.

Steve realizes why they are talking like that to him. "It wasn't in my head!" he shouts and then flinches from the loud sound. T'Challa cups his head, his hand cool and soothing. "I swear it wasn't. I swear."

"It's okay," Bruce softly says. 

"No," Steve pouts. "Put me down, I can walk on my own."

"Steve," Natasha warningly says. 

"No," Steve sourly exclaims, kicking his legs until T'Challa puts him down. Steve belatedly notices that T'Challa has folded his jacket around him, and Steve's head has bled all over it. Steve glares at them before swirling around and just as he does, he feels something tug loose from the inside of his shirt. He looks down.

A big red feather is on the concrete.

T'Challa, Natasha and Bruce looks at it and then looks at Steve.

Steve, for some unfathomable reason, chooses to just stick out his tongue and make a face before walking towards the entrance of the building. 

When he has healed his concussion, he and Sam have a lot to talk about.

\----

As soon as Steve gets inside, he begs Natasha for his equipment and uses the excuse that he's going to heal his head injury, though he healed it while eating. After a moment Natasha sighs and goes outside to find the nearest tear. 40 minutes later she has already paid a visit to their apartment in Brooklyn and she throws the suitcase on his bed. Steve, who is laying on it, has a dizzy head and his body still feels nauseous. He sits up and inspects the content. All the basics are in there and whatever else Natasha has been able to find in his room, she has stuffed in as well. T'Challa's who's inspecting Steve's window and looking for more clues of Sam's presence, follows Steve with his eyes as Steve walks into the bathroom.

He turns on the tap and while the tub is getting filled up, he opens a box with gelatin-like sheets. They're transparent, and Steve stares at the light bulb for a moment, before he reluctantly calls T'Challa into the bedroom.

"Could you lift me?" Steve asks, pointing at the ball of light floating in the top of the bathroom. 

\- _Sure_ , T'Challa complies, nearing Steve and knotting his fingers together. Steve steps onto the hands and they lift Steve up. Steve drapes the ball of light in the sheets and it changes color, so the bathroom looks red and ominous. Steve lands on his feet.

\- _What are you doing_? T'Challa asks. 

Steve doesn't answer. He takes a large pot of powder cream and pours a cup of it in the tub. Immediately the water turns from a glassy translucency to a milky substance.

Steve picks up glass jar full of dried burgundy roses, as big as his fist. He takes one and makes it float on the water surface. Then he picks up three white water roses. He blows life into the dead organisms and as soon as they touch the water, they drift down and green roots pattern the white tub like spider webs, shooting branches out which green sprouts.

A hand falls down on Steve's shoulders.

"I need to get to him," Steve admits, turning around and facing the detective.

\- _Are you two...?_ T'Challa asks.

"No," Steve frowns. "He's my familiar and like a brother to me. Wouldn't you do anything to save your brother?"

T'Challa doesn't reply to that. Steve slowly undresses and steps into the lukewarm water. He lowers his head, until the water is up to his temples. "You don't have to be here for this."

He lets the water sooth him, and starts to willfully doze. He focuses on his breathing, and every time his mind starts to wander, he pulls it back. When his mind is comfortably empty, he reaches out. Behind his closed eyelids, he can sense the flowers start to bloom and the scent fills his nose.

He's flying. No, he's gliding. Gliding in the wind. His wing is throbbing with pain even though he majorly lets the wind carry him. He focuses to make the wings flap evenly, his healthy wing hitting the air unbelievably slow as it tries to match the pace of the other wing. When he gets tired he lands on a rock. His stomach is a painful cramp, that’s how hungry he is.

He lets time pass by for a while, before he continues his flight. Orange cliffs are nearing. The great large frame of Grand Canyon nears his view and he sees others of his kind fly around it. He needs to push himself just a little more. He needs to get to his family. He needs to.

Everything blackens and Steve pulls his eyes open. The room smells of the water roses. When Steve had made Sam his familiar, Sam had picked out the flowers, put them in the water and lied in the water, surrounded by their smell as well. Normally witches bound themselves to cats or crows, but Steve had been sure when he had chosen Sam and eventually Bucky. 

He notices that someone is holding his hand, and when his eyes move they see T'Challa sitting at the edge of the tub on a chair. He's holding Steve's hand and meets Steve's eyes, when Steve looks.

Steve sits up. "He's with his family," he groans. "At the Grand Canyon."

He rubs his head, and mumbles a pain-relieving spell.

\- _If he's your familiar then what is the tub needed for_? T'Challa asks.

Steve inhales. The water has gotten cold. "I can talk to them through my mind no matter what distance, but he has to accept that I want to communicate with him, just like I have to accept him trying to communicate with me," he shortly explains. "However, this was a ritual to extract my astral form from this body and enter his. This way I can see and hear what he does, and I don't need his acceptance." He uncomfortably shrugs. "Usually I wouldn't do it unless they accept though."

Something weird happens with T'Challa's eyes as he holds Steve's gaze. 

 _\- I believe you_ , T'Challa eventually signs. He stands up, pulling Steve up with the action. 

He reaches out for a towel and drapes Steve's shoulders with it.

Their eyes meet for a long, straining moment, and something in T'Challa's aura flickers. Steve feels his own flicker in response, but he has no idea what it was.

\----

Steve’s grandmother once told him who their ancestors were before Christianity, before industrialism, before technology. “Witch” is a broad term; after all there are many kinds. But they were not only witches, not only children of the moon, but also messengers of love and guardians of the creatures of the forest. Love was and is the greatest medicine to exist. When Steve had been told this, he had been skeptical. After all herbs and medicines are what brought far better results than plain old love.

“Medicine is more efficient,” his grandmother had agreed. “But when a temporarily paralyzed man trains and trains for months to walk again, it isn’t medicine that makes him do it. It’s love that will make him try to.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re gonna cuddle,” Steve announces, before politely wiggling his way into the room through the space between the door frame and T’Challa’s arm. T’Challa follows him with his eyes and Steve sits down in the middle of the bed (smelling like mint and musk) before decisively lying down and rolling into the middle of the king-sized bed.

Steve knows he’s screwed when Ms. Hand takes him aside the next evening, her hand cold and unwelcome on his shoulder.

“Steven,” she says, going for kind. “I’ve noticed that you and T’Challa are going through a rough patch. Aren’t you?”

Steve swallows and shakes his head. “No, we’re fine.”

“Then how come you’re not sleeping together?” she asks, her brows up to her hairline. “At this point you’re in more physical contact with Agent Romanoff and Lieut. Barnes.”

Crap. He has been cuddling with Natasha on the couch, watching bad talent shows all morning, and Bucky had visited her at noon, bringing fresh fish and clams.

“There’s nothing wrong with admitting it,” Ms. Hand says and Steve looks up at her. For a moment he understand why she’s good at this job. The sweet façade might not be working for her, but it’s clear that she does care. “You got to understand, Steven, that this is rough for him too. He’s not only your fiancé now, he’s also your legal contact.”

“Yeah,” Steve says and deflates. “I guess it kinda ruins the romance. I just can’t look him in the eye, you know?”

She nods, quick to try and make him open up further. “It doesn’t have to be him. I have plenty of trustworthy people with confidentiality. They won’t betray your trust, and they’re trained to spot relapses. As I understand from your nurses and doctors at rehab, relapsing with no control over it is what you fear the most, yes?”

Steve nods, and suddenly this conversation has become a lot more genuine than he expected. “I’m afraid of hurting him,” he admits, and to his horror he knows it’s true. T’Challa has been unprofessional enough for Steve to have started to care about him, not as his legal contact or the detective working his case, but T’Challa as a person. “I’m afraid of hurting any of them.”

“You just say so if it becomes too much, okay?” she smiles, and lets go of him. “There’s no shame; it wouldn’t be giving up, even if you ended back where you started. Recovery isn’t linear.”

But the case was too important to go back for. And T’Challa was part of SHIELD, so he must be trained in combat and Steve doesn’t want involve an outsider into all of this.

“I will think about it,” he answers, but he can tell that Ms. Hand knows she has already lost him. But like the vampire she is, she will probably try to convince him again sooner rather than later.

This very conversation makes it hard to sleep that night. And that’s why Steve gets up half an hour after having turned off the light, covering his body with his duvet, and leaves his room so he can go and knock on T’Challa’s door. A second goes by as T’Challa wakes up. He’s only wearing pajamas pants and they’re on crookedly, so either T’Challa has just put them on or he’s a restless sleeper.

Either way, Steve’s going to find out.

T’Challa’s chest though. Surprisingly toned and carved. Steve wants to touch it.  
What? Steve can’t fall in love, but he can be attracted.

“We’re gonna cuddle,” Steve announces, before politely wiggling his way into the room through the space between the door frame and T’Challa’s arm. T’Challa follows him with his eyes and Steve sits down in the middle of the bed (smelling like mint and musk) before decisively lying down and rolling into the middle of the king-sized bed.

  * _Hand_? T’Challa asks, and thankfully closes the door. Steve exhales a breath he didn’t know he had been holding. – _I knew the scent thing was going to be a problem._



“Yep,” Steve confirms. “I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s very uncomfortable for you.”

T’Challa shrugs and walks over to the bedside. Steve can see that the man is tense and trying not to show it. Hesitantly the Wakandan sits down on the bedside.

  * _I used to share my bed with my little sister,_ T’Challa signs, finally lying down, his back all propped up with pillow though.



“Was she afraid of the dark?” Steve asks.

  * _No,_ T’Challa slowly signs, and finally slides down a little further which makes Steve roll towards him. – _I was._



Steve quickly glances at the night lamp, which was already one when he got here. “Do you still fear darkness?”

T’Challa looks at the ceiling. – _I can sleep with the lamp off, but I’d prefer it on._

Steve nods. He could suppress it, withstand it, but has never really gotten rid of it.

  * _You were never scared of the dark?_ T’Challa asks, his eyes soft.



Steve shrugs. “Not really. Witches are usually children of the night, so we have a better eye in the darkness than most. My ma and grandma, they would always carry me around during their nocturnal rituals, even as a baby.”

  * _What were you doing?_ T’Challa asks, nudging coming closer. Steve lifts the duvet and T’Challa takes it and lays it over them.



“Mostly settling civil matters, doing checkups, scouting the area,” Steve mumbles, the night thick and heavy around them. “Sometimes, we’d stay out until dawn to pick the flowers, which unfolded first.”

There’s a moment of silence and Steve meets T’Challa’s eyes.

  * _Describe it to me?_ T’Challa asks.



And Steve closes his eyes, digging up some of his most valuable memories. And he talks about the Honey Island swamp, more like rivers than ground. The crowns of cypress trees had been bowed over the water like they were praying, their frizzy grey-green hair never touching the water. Irish Moss had grown on them and around them. The color of the water varied, and it could be grey and misty in twilight, green in the morning, brown or blue midday. The full moon had always reflected on the water, showing the right path, giving them a source of light.

He talks about Lake Cypress Springs, and the outskirt Laguna Steven had found where the water had been black and yet clear, the trees rounding it like a frame, shielding one from the world. He had rowed there on his boat, and he had watched the water fairies busily dance and sparkle underneath the surface of the water. At night it had looked like small purple sparklers.

  * _It sounds beautiful,_ T’Challa comments. – _Why don’t you come there anymore? You own the land, you’re trained, the people know you and your family. In Brooklyn you’re struggling._



Steve opens his eyes. “They killed my mom there. At least here, the memories of her don’t haunt me too much. Besides it gets boring and monotonous. My grandmother loved it, but there’s a reason my Ma liked staying in New York.”

  * _But eventually?_



Steve nods and sighs. “I guess I will settle down.”

T’Challa’s eyes crinkle.

“What about you?” Steve asks. “You have family at home besides your sister?”

T’Challa nods. – _I have two brothers, one older and one younger. My mother passed when I was a toddler, but my father married a blessed woman, who always treated my older brother and I like her own._

“Do you miss them…?” Steve asks, something aching in his stomach. “How long has it been since you’ve last seen them?”

T’Challa weighs him with his eyes, and signs at the ceiling: - _A long time ago, it seems._

The ache in his stomach because a churning feeling, and he shouldn’t, but still he hesitantly says: “Go visit them when you can, T’Challa. They can disappear anytime. You don’t want your last memory of them to already be hazy.”

T’Challa turns his head, and frowns at Steve, and Steve is about to apologize, but T’Challa is moving closer until his side is resting against Steve’s shoulder, their feet touching.

_\----_

Steve wakes up because T’Challa is breathing hotly against his neck. What really wakes Steve up, is how is that supposed to happen?

He turns around and narrows his eyes in the darkness. T’Challa’s mask is still hard and dark on his face, but Steve can still feel his soft puffs on his face. Steve wonders if T’Challa has tan lines from the mask. After all it seems like T’Challa has been wearing it for a while. How long has he been wearing it? And why is he wearing it?

It seems like a magical device in some way. But what does it help him do? Is it shielding him from something? Containing something?

Steve pokes it and it feels like it’s made out of wood. Is it hollow inside?

Steve taps it with a knuckle and T’Challa stirs, opening his dark eyes. Steve pretends he’s sleeping. T’Challa knowingly pokes him in the side, before turning his back and falling asleep again.

T’Challa’s so _hot_ , and Steve can’t possibly fall asleep again. He rolls around a bit, and then pokes Bucky.

  * _What are you doing?_ Steve asks.
  * _I’m resting,_ Bucky grunts and when he speaks again, he sounds more alert: - _Are you in bed with Peggy?_
  * _No,_ Steve answers, surprised, until he remembers that Bucky is catching glimpses from Steve’s points of view.
  * _Do you remember what she said?_ Bucky drones on anyway. – _She said she’d never ever hurt you, and there you go again._
  * _Bucky –_



A third voice joins in. – _Are you in bed with Peggy?_

  * _Sam_? Steve asks, though he recognizes the voice. – _Are you_ –
  * _You’re gonna break up and make up **again**? _
  * _Haven’t you had enough of how many times she’s let you down?_ Bucky continues.
  * _She never fought for you, Steve,_ Sam tirades.
  * _She’s not real, no real person would love you like that,_ Bucky goes on, and impatiently Steve rolls a confused and groggy T’Challa around, staring him in the face.
  * _Oh,_ Sam says, and his voice is fading.
  * _Wait, Sam!_ Steve calls out.
  * _He’s gone,_ Bucky says. – _Why the Hell are you in bed with your detective?_



T’Challa asks him what’s going on, and Steve pats his cheek, saying it’s alright.

  * _Hand became suspicious,_ Steve explains. – _She could smell I was cuddling with anyone but my fiancé._
  * _Oh,_ Bucky says.
  * _Have you been talking with Sam?_ Steve asks suspiciously.
  * _Why would I have?_
  * _You seem utterly not surprised that he took contact?_
  * _We’ve been talking here and there,_ Bucky confesses. – _Not long conversations. Don’t be hurt, Steve, you know we can’t really demand anything of him right now._
  * _I know._



Still, Steve feels slightly stung that Sam doesn’t dare reach out to him. Steve considers if it’s because Sam’s his familiar, but even then, despite urban thinking, familiars have never been servants of a witch. They’re supposed to be your helpers, and the witch is supposed to help them in return, provide them protection; but that has never really been that way with Steve and his familiars.

Bucky had always taken care of him, especially after the death of his mother and grandmother. Steve met Sam right after his mother died, which means Sam met him at his worst and even though there is more of a balance today than there was back then (where Sam had took the role as a counselor/contact person, even though Steve was in greater need of a friend), Sam and Bucky both had it in their heads that they were his protectors rather than his helpers.

Maybe that’s why Sam won’t rely on Steve? Maybe that’s why Sam won’t talk to him, and rather talk to Bucky?

  * _You can talk to me_ , Steve throws out there, hoping Sam will hear. – _I’m your friend. I will always be here for you._



As expected Sam doesn’t reply, and before Bucky and Steve can resume their conversation, Steve hears a noise outside the door.

He breaks off the connection, and gets up from bed, hoping Natasha’s in the kitchen and they can have a cup of tea before dawn. He drapes a wool shawl over his shoulder and slightly opens the door.

An ant is in the kitchen, a machine gun posed ready in his arms as he lurks around. Steve blinks, apathetic yet shocked, before he slowly shuts the door. He walks back to the bed with soft footsteps, and blesses his lightweight when the wooden planks don’t creak.

He puts a hand on T’Challa and shakes him. T’Challa opens his eyes and glares, like he’s asking “This again?” and turns away.

Steve, paralyzed with fear, just shakes T’Challa more roughly. “T’Challa,” he whispers. “T’Challa, there’s a HYDRA-agent in the kitchen,” he hisses and T’Challa immediately sits up. He looks at Steve and then at the door. Steve grabs his phone and messages Natasha and tells her to get Bruce. She texts back **I’m coming to get you, wait in your room. Let T’Challa do his thing.**

Steve shows the message to T’Challa, who meanwhile has already dressed. He instructs Steve into the closet, and Steve stares at him with widened scared eyes, as T’Challa touches his shoulder before closing the door. Through the sound of his own loud breathing, he can hear T’Challa’s footsteps walk towards the bedroom door. He hears it open, and after a second there’s a loud noise as the ant’s gun goes off and two bodies hit the floor or wall. Holding his breath, he listens to the rough struggle. Someone sighs and after a minute, T’Challa is opening the closet door. He begins to drag Steve away, but Steve shrugs himself loose, going back for his medical bag and then quickly catches up. They meet up with Natasha in the hallway, and they take the stairs up the Banner’s apartment.

Except they hear a loud roar, and too big footsteps ramble through the apartment. The ants are screaming, and several things are crushed and smashed by what sound like huge fists. Ants are already spread unconsciously all over the stairs, most of them alive but probably permanently injured. Something big is growling in there, and Steve looks nervously at T’Challa and Natasha who are blankly, yet patiently looking at the entrance to the apartment, not moving forwards.

Finally the fighting ceases, and the steps are slowly coming towards them. The heavy body transfigures on the way, because the steps become lighter and it’s Dr. Banner who’s opening the door. He looks pale and exhausted, only wearing his pajamas pants and T’Challa immediately steps up to his side, and supports his weight as they quickly descend the stairs.

“There are more outside,” Natasha notices on the way down.

“I got to shut the garage down before they came,” Dr. Banner lets her know.

“Good.”

They finally reach the garage, and Natasha uses her fingerprints to enter it. They enter a black SUV.

“How the Hell are we getting out of here?” Steve asks.

“I called the City Guards,” Natasha lets him know. “They evacuated our route, and there will be help if we can’t shake them off when we reach the city.”

“Hopefully they’ll be gone by then,” Dr. Banner grunts, getting into the backseat. Natasha takes the seat besides him, and T’Challa gets in the passenger seat.

“You want me to drive?” Steve asks, getting into the drivers seat. The car is big and Steve doesn’t use his driver’s license nearly enough to be a decent driver.  
“We need our hands free,” she informs. “All you need to do is shut up and drive, so T’Challa and I can stay focused. Got it?”

“Yes,” he complies.

“Good,” she nods, opening the suitcases she got from the trunk. She takes the guns she needs and reaches T’Challa the suitcase. Steve feels himself grow cold at the sight of T’Challa handling weapons; Natasha, sure, she’s always been sharp enough, dangerous enough, but for some reason T’Challa has always seemed far too gentle to handle something as abominating as a weapon.

T’Challa catches him looking, and Steve quickly looks away.

As soon as T’Challa has mobilized himself, Natasha orders: “Drive as fast as you can.”

The garage door is already opening, and Steve slams the speeder. The SUV immediately drives full-speed out of there, and Natasha and T’Challa are pointing their guns out by the time they reach the exit. Immediately bullets rain down on them, and Steve gasps, tries not to scream as he drives. The ants are lined along the road, hidden behind black shields and shooting all at once. But they haven’t brought anything to block the SUV’s way, and Steve can see several auras fade as T’Challa and Natasha retaliates.

They make it to the highway as Natasha calmly directs through the sound of bullets going off, and Steve breathes, thinking perhaps it’s over, but then, of course, three other SUV’s are driving towards them. And getting closer. Why are their SUV’s faster than his.

“Keep up the tempo,” Natasha instructs. “Better leave a trail than drag this out.”

The cars are coming closer, and two of the SUV’s are driving on both sides of their car, one right behind them. Steve tries not to look at them, but he does.

Behind the uniform making them resemble ants, behind the helmets, Steve can see eyes. Cold, hard eyes, but still eyes, and for a moment Steve doubts all of this. These people are either going to kill them or be killed by them, and it’s so cruel… can’t they find a better solution, a resolution ending with peace …

That thought stops when the SUV slams into Steve’s SUV and Natasha rams her body into the window, cursing.

Then Steve is slamming right back, and their SUV contains some horse power after all, because the driver of the other SUV briefly loses control over their car, and by the time they have regained it, they hit a street light and then drives into some trees.

Steve inhales, looking at the road again.

“I didn’t tell you to do that,” Natasha nonchalantly comments.

“You also told me I’d be safe in New Jersey,” he comments right back, and he catches a glimpse of her smirk in the mirror, before the other SUV’s craves his attention.

Then Natasha is rolling up the window, Dr. Banner hazily watching her transfigure into a spider the size of a monster truck wheel and jump onto the car besides them. Steve tries not to look as she tears their roof open and breaking their necks with her pedipalps.

T’Challa has already packed away the guns by the time she’s taken care of the last SUV and crawled into the car again, and Dr. Banner has fallen asleep like this is fucking daycare and the caretaker broke out Beethoven.

The rest of the ride doesn’t seem as long as the first bit. Steve is hyperaware and worried as he scans the route, but eventually their backup arrives, and Steve relaxes a little bit.

“Why did we run?” his stupid mouth asks. “If all of you could’ve lasted the fight, wouldn’t taking prisoners have been better? Don’t we need information?”

“No use,” Natasha sighs, looking neither shaken nor exhausted as they stop in front of Stark Tower. “They kill themselves with cyanide pills before we get to them either way.”

Steve thinks about that for a moment. “They tracked us, even though we’re a seemingly non-important group,” he evaluates. “They were very determined to catch us. So either they know about me or there’s something none of you are telling me.”

Natasha meets his eyes for a moment, before looking at T’Challa who shakes his head. Steve narrows his eyes at him, and Natasha grabs both Steve’s medical bag as well as her trunk. “Well, let’s hope it’s the later,” she says, before getting out. Steve follows, and he senses T’Challa fall behind them. There’s something going on Steve’s not supposed to know about, and Steve likes truth, likes speaking it, but he’s smart enough to know secrets can get you killed.

“We’ll try to find out if he’s detected you,” Dr. Banner kindly says, heading towards the Tower. T’Challa gives him a gentle nudge, and Steve stares at him.

“Are we going in there?” he asks, as Natasha throws the key to a parking valet, strutting into the building.

None of them answer him, just build a wall around him as if people are not allowed to see him enter. Steve looks down and he notices that he smells of sweat and his cheeks are dirty with gunpowder.

He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels ashamed, but he does. Not ashamed of them, but ashamed of himself. He feels oddly out of place and useless. But again that isn’t anything new; before he was a healer working at a cosmetics firm, and now he’s a witness with an addiction problem.

He’s such a loser, and it wouldn’t be a surprise if he just died in the mess of all this, because he wasn’t important enough. Not important enough to be missed, not important enough to get a job, not important enough for Peggy to not have left him when she did.

God. Why did he not sleep more than three hours? He’s more prone to be depressed about his sad excuse of a life when he was sleep-deprived.

They step into the elevator, and Natasha holds out an arm. She pulls him in without looking away from the shut elevator doors, and kisses his forehead. “You did well.”

Steve closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he can feel T’Challa look at him.

Or look and look. T’Challa is glaring.

“What is your problem?” he asks.

“Don’t mind him,” Dr. Banner says, good-naturedly. “T’Challa isn’t in the best mood when he hasn’t had at least 8 hours.”

Steve blushes. “Yeah. Uh. Sorry I kept waking you up, T’Challa.”

Now Natasha is staring at him and Dr. Banner’s brows are in the air.

  * _We’re mixing our scent,_ T’Challa explains, glaring at them.



“You didn’t do that for the other covers,” Natasha casually notices.

  * _The other covers didn’t involve a vampire and their nose,_ T’Challa dismisses, something final in the last movement of his hand.



“Knock it off, Natasha,” Steve says, and Natasha just smirks like the giant acid-pool she is.

They come off their floor, and Steve almost doesn’t follow them. This isn’t the offices – _this is the penthouse._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please let me know what you think, comments drive the author and keep up the updates ^^


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve’s heart beats faster.
> 
> Natasha narrows her eyes. “Shut up, Stark.”

Steve has heard of Tony Stark. He was announced the sexiest billionaire in the States in 2307, and is also known one of the tallest dwarves in the States. He had been a known playboy until he had made his relationship with the banshee, Pepper Potts, official in 2305. Because of him and his father, much of the humans’ technology was brought back to life and had become even more advanced and innovative. That is the way they made their fortune, Stark even more so.

Steve doesn’t know what to expect, but certainly not Pepper Potts in a white, thin nightdress, her silvery feet on top of Tony Stark’s lap. Stark is massaging her ankles, while speaking hurriedly and hushed into a Bluetooth headset, which must be connected to a computer or a phone. He looks different than in the magazines; his clothes look worn-in and frayed at the edges, and his hair looks softer and curlier than Steve has ever noticed in his public appearances.

Natasha, T’Challa and Dr. Banner glide out of the elevator. Steve stays in the elevator, stricken, until Natasha comes back to retrieve him. Stark apparently hangs up, and dryly comments: “Are you seriously bringing the Brooklyn Bridge-addict into my home? Are you really doing this right now?”

Steve’s heart beats faster.

Natasha narrows her eyes. “Shut up, Stark.”

“I can leave – “ Steve begins, but Natasha squeezes his hand.

“I’m sorry, Tony hasn’t slept for 42 hours,” Pepper Potts quickly damage controls, smiling and standing up. “Normally he isn’t like this.”

She reaches out her hand, and Steve hesitantly shakes it. “I’m Steve,” he briefly introduces himself. “I have no idea why I was brought here.”

“Fury authorized it,” Natasha coolly informs. “He is to stay at either mine or T’Challa’s apartment. We are to both protect and protect others against him. You can provide us Bruce’s floor, if you don’t feel safe with him yet.” The last sentence is directed to Pepper and said softer.

“Now I don’t think there’s a need for that,” Bruce nervously intervenes, and Stark stares at him, looking betrayed.

“Come on, Green Thumb, why would you hand your apartment over?” Stark asks, but he doesn’t sound mad, rather just concerned. “I spent so much decorating it.”

“I am far more likely to have an outburst than Steve,” Bruce tells him, sounded drained.

“Oh, so you’re on first name basis now, huh?” flares Stark.

Now Stark is getting up from the couch as well, and Steve is surprised to see that they’re around the same height. Stark really is a tall dwarf.

“So what’s your deal?” the dwarf asks, narrowing his eyes at Steve.

Now T’Challa is stepping in front of Steve. – _I’m the one surveying and inspecting his case,_ he signs, his expression somehow cold. – _If you’re concerned about the client, you interrogate yourself with me._

“Protective, are we,” Stark flatly notices, his eyes still resting on Steve.

“Look, I can find another place to live, if it makes you feel – “ Steve starts.

“No,” Natasha interrupts. “You’re our only source of information, and the recent attack indicates that HYDRA might be on to that. If Stark can’t deal with the decisions which are made, he can refer himself to Fury and not have put his Tower up as an Avenger base.”

“Natasha,” Steve says, something sharp cutting into his voice, slowly losing patience. “If Stark feels he or his home is threatened by my presence, I can’t just ignore that.”

“Then give us Bruce’s floor,” Natasha demands Stark.

“Steve hasn’t had a single relapse in –“ Bruce starts to argue.

“Alright!” Pepper interrupts, a warning hair-rising undertone in her voice. “Tony, I trust Natasha’s judgment. If she really thinks Steven isn’t a threat, and both Bruce and T’Challa haven’t got another impression, then there’s no reason to argue like this and be bad hosts.”

Stark’s clenches his jaw, and Bruce’s shoulders slump. Steve is starting to get the feeling who is really in charge of this tower.

“Steven, isn’t it?” Pepper smiles, trying to look relaxed and welcome, though there’s something slightly stressed in her forehead, and her aura disrupts, like someone threw a stone in a smooth water surface. He can sense a deep ache of stress inside of her, and he wonders not if but when it is to come out. “Again, I apologize for Tony’s behavior; we’ve got roughly 60 floors of SI-workers underneath us, and he always bears their safety in mind, even when it isn’t necessary.”

Steve doubts this. He’s pretty it’s not so much about their workers, and more about Pepper’s safety. Media has always depicted her as a perfectionist, ambitious, goal-driven and flawless, but in his experience Banshees often have a softer, more nervous nature, though that would be generalizing.

“I’m Pepper,” she introduces herself. “You and Natasha are welcome to pick any floor you want.”

Steve nods, looking down. In other circumstances, he would’ve spoken up for himself. And if someone else was treated like this, he definitely would’ve spoken up for them as well. But thing is, he fully understands Stark. He’s pretty sure it isn’t the hollow magic addiction that’s a problem – it’s that Steve is unstable and unpredictable, and with other words a time bomb. And that’s far worse than a normal addict.

Natasha and T’Challa go back to the elevator and it goes down a few floors. Steve can tell that Natasha is stiff, as she announces: “This is us. See you later, T’Challa.”

  * _Enjoy your day,_ T’Challa signs, and follows them with his eyes until the elevator doors shut.



Natasha sighs when the elevator doors have shut behind them, a rare sign of exhaustion he isn’t used to seeing. “I’m gonna go draw us a bath. Good thing that you grabbed your medical bag.” She points. “The first room down the hall is a guestroom.”

Steve nods, and walks ahead, as she walks towards what must be the bath room. He opens the door to the guestroom, and it’s dusty in there but smells… weird. Like someone has been living here regularly, but he can’t tell by the smell what creature it is. The room is sparely furnished, but the rich colors of the cocoa-colored wood, makes the room appear tastefully rich. There are some candleholders and a few putti-statues made out of crystal and steel, all with suspiciously club qualities.

“Steve!” Natasha calls out.

“Coming.” He quickly undresses, puts his hearing aids aside, and shivering he follows her voice, his small feet tapping across the warm floor. Beside the bedroom at the end of the hall, Natasha is standing in a huge bathroom, smelling like citron and lavender, a scent both heavy and fresh. She’s standing naked in front of the tub, which is filled with warm bubble-free water, and Steve smiles.

“We gotta stop meeting like this,” he tries to joke, but it comes out flat.

She lowers herself in the tub, and as she does it, Steve sights a small, round wound in her shoulder. She has purposefully let that patch of skin stay in its exoskeleton shape.

“Jeez, Natasha,” he says, getting into the tub. The water is hot and instantly relaxes his quivering, cold muscles. He gets up on his knees, and Natasha obediently turns around, letting him inspect the wound.

Natasha might seem like she has soft skin, but the black leathery suit she’s wearing is actually a morph between her anthropomorphic form and her spider one, aka an exoskeleton. The bullet hasn’t pierced through to her wetworks, but it’s a close call.

“I’m getting my medical bag. I’ll need tweezers to get the bullet out,” he says, and she points him towards the towels. He jogs to his room, careful not to slip, getting the medical bag and walks back to the bathroom. He puts the medical bag at the edge of the tub, and retrieves his tweezers and mild numbing tissues.

He wipes off the excess fluids coming from the wound, and holds the next tissue still over the wound. “So you have a apartment in Stark Tower?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer, but Steve needs to know why she’s room mating with him when she clearly has a better place to live. He knew she was rarely in their apartment, but until now he just assumed it was because of work.

“Did you know there are no medical studies of Arachnida physiology?” she asks. “There are so many humans Awakening all the time, it’s hard for the medical world to keep up. It doesn’t help that the only case they’ve gotten one of us to cut up was in 2288, when an Arachnida attacked and ate a fairy, and was taking down by law enforcement.”

Steve exhales.

“I needed medical assistance that could help me, when I was in need of it,” she says. “Doctor, healer, nurse, it didn’t matter to me, since no one knows how to take care of my physiology anyway. But the fact that your family tree was early in their Awakening, means that your training in some ways is more superior than the people who were educated in the Academia. Being home-schooled by experienced healers, and always having your hands in the field really makes a difference.”

Steve listens with a growing understanding. “So you didn’t room up with me for economic reasons, but for medical ones.”

It makes sense now. The low rent, the big space, all the medical equipment Natasha conveniently had at hand when he moved in. How willing she was to let him into her space, and fill him with knowledge about her kind despite being so secretive. All the scraps and wounds he had helped her with over the years.

“You might underestimate yourself, because you haven’t managed to find a job in your field,” she continues. “But currently, you’re not only the healer who has expertly treated the worse wounds my kind has ever faced – well aside from Arachne herself – you’re also our medical support in case of emergency.”

Steve slides away the tissue. “And when did you sign me up for that?” he asks, remembering an Arachnida coming all the way from Georgia, because she twisted her ankle on the runway and it had healed incorrectly.

“Last year,” she informs. He picks up the tweezers, and softly informs: “It’s gonna hurt some.”

But it isn’t something he hasn’t tried before. She doesn’t show any signs of pain, as he starts to search for it.

“There haven’t been anyone beside that model,” he notices.

“We don’t get hurt easily,” she lets him know. “And I’m the only one, as far as I know, who’s having this sort of lifestyle.”

“A dangerous one?” he asks as he finally pops the bullet out. He throws it in the sink, and fluids are welling out after it. He wipes away as much as he can, before he plants his hand on her shoulder and starts sending energies out to speed up the healing process and heal the exoskeleton tissue.

“It’s worse than you would think,” she lets him know. “The media likes to paint the Symbiosis as the Utopian world, with no wars and no disputes. But it’s not, and it’s not only the humans causing the unrest.”

Steve meets her eyes. “You’re protecting us. Thank you for that. I don’t think I ever said that.”

Natasha doesn’t answer, just closes her eyes and leans back.

He lets go of her when the hole has sealed up. The tissue is soft and still too new too fully withstand any huge amount of pressure, but if he keeps it wrapped up, it would mature quickly.

“What the Hell, Natasha,” he finally sighs sitting down on the other side of the huge tub. “I know I wished for a job badly, but signing me up like that was out of line.”

“I know,” Natasha says. “And I know it all sounds coldly calculated, and like I was never your friend. But I never would done any of this for you, if you were just an asset.”

She puts a hand on his knee, and he exhales.

“Just don’t do it again,” Steve sighs. “I understand and forgive the position you were in…. Just don’t do it again. I’m tired of being a tool.”

She nods, and they enjoy their bath in silence. Steve dozes with his body immerged to his shoulders, and wakes abruptly when he hears someone knocking on the wall. He looks at Natasha.

“It’s T’Challa.” She whispers for some reason. “It’s his way of saying ‘I can’t announce myself, please don’t mistake me for an assassin and kill me’. Call out for him.”

“In here,” Steve obediently calls out.

T’Challa opens the door and his brows jump as he sees them in the tub, and then quickly looks away.

“What is it?” Steve asks.

  * _I just came with new clothes,_ T’Challa signs. – _Also, the chef wants to know what your diet is._



“Oh,” Steve mumbles. He names his diet as human and lists his allergens, and T’Challa hurriedly leaves.

“What was his deal?” Steve asks as Natasha starts to giggle.

“They’re very human in his culture,” she informs him. “To the degree that if you see someone of the opposite sex naked, and that person isn’t someone you’re romantically nor sexually engaged with, it’s considered rude and impolite.”

“Natasha,” he scolds. “That’s not nice.”

\----

When they’re done with their bath, there’s a bunch of boxes on the guestroom table. He dresses and goes to the kitchen to find several boxed dishes. Steve eats pumpkin seed bread with fat butter on top and a wild berry salad with chicken and candied walnuts on the side. Natasha is eating beside him, imported hornets from China, bigger than her thumbs, and grasshoppers as long as her palm. They’re fried with chia seeds and dusted with pollen, but Natasha’s stomach can’t handle too much vegetarian, so that’s what she can eat at most. Technically she could eat other meats than the insects, but she says the insects are better, higher in protein and lower in fat.

Afterwards, he brushes his teeth, and keeps dropping his head, the bed singing its sweet lullaby even from here. Finally, he exchanges pleasantries with the Queen bed, and can’t even evaluate its level of comfort…

… before he’s abruptly woken up after what feels like two minutes later. Outside the sun is on the middle of the sky, so he must have slept past morning and noon.   
“Come in,” he calls out, knowing his words are slurred, since he still isn’t great at pronouncing words without his hearing aids. T’Challa opens the door, and immediately looks delighted.

  * _You look tired,_ he notices. – _Funny, considering you were the one who woke me up all night._



“T’Challa,” Steve groans. “Your saltiness is far too early.”

  * _Never too early to be salty,_ T’Challa signs.



Steve frowns as he senses background noise, and he picks up his hearing aids from the table and plugs them in.

“ – room stealer,” he has time to hear, a rough low voice sounding like it’s pouting.

“Clint, don’t be that way,” Natasha’s voice responds. She sounds edgy and tired, and he can hear her nails tap against the table. She probably didn’t get to sleep like he did.

  * _You shouldn’t listen to this,_ T’Challa says, but doesn’t close the door. – _She doesn’t expect you to plug your hearings aids in when you’re talking to me._



“Yeah, yeah,” the male voice keeps going, though something in his voice seems wired. “How long is he going to stay?”

“I don’t know,” Natasha answers. “It’s a sensitive case, right now. Not only for me, but for the Director as well.”

“A’right,” the voice sighs.

Steve looks at T’Challa. – _Is it Natasha’s boyfriend?_ He signs.

T’Challa frowns. – _If they were lovers, why would they be in need of a guest room._

Steve shrugs. – _Natasha is fickle with these things._

They listen to them for a few minutes, Steve biting his lip. Is Natasha with someone and is it serious? Who was this guy, and why was Natasha so nice when the guy was being so demanding? Nobody got to demand anything of Natasha.

  * _What is it?_ Steve asks.
  * _Your caseworker called me._



Steve blinks at him. – _How did that conversation work?_

  * _Badly,_ T’Challa informs, all crows’ feet and crinkled eyes. – _Until I started messaging her as she talked. Apparently your role regarding to SHIELD has been informed to the rehabilitation center, and the boss there is very concerned about the place’s reputation. So your sanity and soberness in this case determines how much they’re getting distributed from the tax budget next year, so our caseworker has had to drop several clients in favor of watching you._



Steve sighs. – _So let me guess, she’s coming to New York._

  * _You’re correct._
  * _When?_
  * _In two hours._
  * _Did you tell her I was sleeping?_
  * _But she’ll be able to tell that we’ve been sleeping apart for the past hours. Perhaps she might let it go._



Steve groans. “Let’s get something to eat then.”

He purposefully heads towards the kitchen, but it’s barren. They make some quick sandwiches, and eat them while a sitcom is on the huge TV (who puts a TV in the kitchen? But thinking about it, there are TVs in all the rooms). T’Challa volunteers to do the dishes, though he’s started to look at bit worn too, and Steve who’s bouncing on the couch on his knees, eventually gets up on his feet and starts hopping on the couch. T’Challa throws him an annoyed glance, and Steve keeps jumping, likes the strain on his knees and ankles, likes how his body is naturally balancing as he lands down and sets off again. His body’s movement is a beautiful symphony, and his muscles, bones, joints, etc. all play their part to make the jumping work in this simple task.

Steve laughs at the thought, and kicks a steel vase to the floor, just for the Hell of it.

  * _What are you doing?_ T’Challa asks, looking increasingly agitated.



“What?” Steve asks. “This?”

He pushes a crystal dodecahedron to the floor. It lands with a clunk.

T’Challa narrows his eyes and steps forwards. – _Don’t. Those things aren’t yours to break._

“Why not?” Steve asks, getting out of breath as he hops further away from T’Challa. “They’re just material things.” He kicks a crystal ornament down from the windowsill, and it falls down on the couch.

T’Challa’s eye twitches, and Steve cackles gleefully. “Is this making you nervous?”

He kicks again, and T’Challa is right in front of him, grabbing his ankle in warning.

“What?” Steve asks, and instead of feeling ashamed about the reprimand, even scared for how T’Challa’s respect for him might be dropping and T’Challa will think lowly of him, Steve’s sleep-deprived mind thinks it’s a good idea to jump up on T’Challa.

T’Challa instinctually grabs his other leg and moves his hand to hug Steve’s knee, even though Steve’s legs are kludging him hard enough for the support to be unnecessary.

Steve’s winds his arms around T’Challa’s neck just to be sure T’Challa won’t drop him out of mirth.

“You really don’t like things breaking, huh?” Steve asks, and T’Challa raises his brows. Steve looks down at his hand. “And wow, now you can’t talk.”

Steve wiggles free and moves the ornaments back to their place. After T’Challa has insured the objects aren’t broken, he looks at Steve, and he looks quite stern, when he signs: – _Alright, time for a nap._

“No, I’m not tired,” Steve protests, bouncing away.

T’Challa clearly disagrees, because he catches Steve’s bouncing figure with an arm around his waist and drags him off the couch. Steve wriggles and giggles, and somewhere he knows he’s so wired because of the lack of sleep. T’Challa retrieves a blanket from the side of the couch, and lies Steve down.

  * _Sleep,_ he frowns and Steve looks up at him, as T’Challa walks away. His shoulder looks tense, his spine too slumped for his usual good posture.



“T’Challa,” Steve whispers without his own consent and T’Challa turns around and looks questionably at him. Steve doesn’t dare to say his thoughts out loud, so he just reaches out a hand. T’Challa looks at the hand for a second, before he slowly nears Steve.

Steve pulls him down with him, and T’Challa sighs as he wiggles so there’s enough space for both of them. Steve presses his cold nose tip against T’Challa’s neck, and T’Challa pokes him in the leg, before putting the blanket on both of them. Steve falls asleep to the knowledge that Steve just wants to cuddle because of Ms. Hand.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s T’Challa who wakes him up by stirring. Steve blinks his eyes open, and realizes his temple is on top of his hearing aid. He fishes it out and plugs it into his ear, securing the other one. He’s hidden behind the mountain of T’Challa’s broad back and shoulders, and can’t see or hear much for a second, before T’Challa sits up and hands Steve his hearing aid. Steve looks up, and sees Ms. Hand.

“Ms. Hand,” he breathes, and scratches his neck. “I’m sorry, we didn’t mean to – “

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she says, smiling with her hands clasping together. She unsubtly sniffs a bit. “I can see you and your fiancé rekindled your relationship!”

“Yeah,” Steve says, smiling crookedly at T’Challa, who worms his arms around Steve’s waist. Steve leans his cheeks against T’Challa warm, thick arm. “I guess all of that danger, and all of this drama, just made us realize what’s important.”

Ms. Hand nods seriously.

She leaves within an hour, after her phone has been ringing nonstop. Steve watches her leave the building, and turns around to find T’Challa with a blanket.

“What?” Steve asks.

T’Challa pointedly looks at the vases Steve had kicked to the floor.

“Oh that,” Steve mumbled, feeling himself flush. “Sorry. I get stupid when I haven’t had enough sleep.”

T’Challa shakes the blanket.

“No thank you, I’m alright now,” Steve grins. “You still look tired though. Go ahead and sleep in my room.”

T’Challa lifts an eyebrow.

Steve refuses to stammer, but he does blush. “Hey, sleeping together worked, didn’t it?”

T’Challa holds his gaze for a second, before shrugging and walking towards Steve’s room. Steve watches him go, and immediately sets to explore the apartment. Besides its l, it wasn’t that extraordinary, so Steve went to the elevator.

“Where can I take you, Sir?” A voice calls out and Steven jolts.

“Who are you?” he suspiciously asks instead.

There’s a pause, and then the voice answers: “I am JARVIS, an AI, which stands for Artificial Intelligence. I was created by Mr. Stark in 2286, and I run 

through human-made technology and dwarf magic.”

“Oh,” Steve mutters. “So… you’re sentient?” Steve asks.

“Yes,” JARVIS just answers. “I also have what could be most closely referred to as a brother, Vision, who also lives in this Tower. However, Vision is an android.”

“And you’re an intelligence,” Steve hums. “Who does your repairs?”

“Sir, usually,” JARVIS hesitantly answers. “However, my programming is at a level where I can repair my codes or at times alter it in case of damage to my software.”

“I see,” Steve nods. “I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t aware that your kind existed.”

“So far there are only three of us existing,” JARVIS lets him know. “Can I inquire about your curiosity?”

Steve flushes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to sound suspicious.” He makes a face. “It’s one of the things we’re taught. If we meet a race or a breed we don’t know about, or at least we don’t know how to take care of, we ask if they have access to healthcare.”

JARVIS closes the elevator doors. “Which floor, Mr. Rogers?”

“The roof,” Steve answers. “And please, call me Steve.”

The elevator goes up silently, and then JARVIS asks: “And if I didn’t have access to healthcare, what would your response have been?”

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugs. “I probably would’ve asked around for knowledge, - now that I say that out loud, I really do sound suspicious, don’t I – and probably tried to establish emergency protocols. But since I know next to nothing about what you are and what makes you tick, I’d probably let someone with a more qualitative experience and expertise establish them.”

“Like Sir.”

“Like him.” Steve nods. “I think it’s because my family were Awakened early and therefore some of the few healers around when Earth tried to reestablish its balance.”

JARVIS doesn’t answer to that, and only opens the door when they reach the roof.

“Have a nice afternoon, Steven,” JARVIS politely dismisses.

Steve goes to the roof, and it’s flooded with botanics. Impressed, Steve takes a tour around, smelling the flowers, getting a feel of the plants, checks the Earth and tries to see if there are any earth nymphs around. There aren’t. Steve isn’t surprised.

He calls a few wind nymphs to the roof, and asks about the place. Apparently, jets are flying off the roof all the time, and the roof and gardening is really a disguise for a platform. They also say, that strange creatures come all the time.

They like one whom they call “Angry green man”. Bruce, who apparently goes up to the roof and tends for the flowers, when he’s “hulked out”. There’s another one who travels to the Tower by their side: A tall masculine blonde who’s directed with a hammer, and sometimes controls lightening. He’s super nice to them, and they really enjoy his company when he’s there. They say there’s something weird about him, some sort of electric energy always pulsing off him.

Stark and Pepper rarely comes up here. Usually when Pepper has screamed and Stark is up there to comfort her. Sometimes a man called Clint also comes up here to drink a beer, and sometimes he brings a pair of mutant siblings. They don’t know who Natasha is.

\----

When Steve comes back to his bedroom (because really, he’s afraid Stark will blow up on him if he wanders too many places) their bed is scattered with papers.

Steve doesn’t really think too much of this, and is looking for his sketchbook at the bottom of this healing bag (hey, some children found it relaxing to see a picture unfold), but T’Challa tenses up so much, Steve can’t help but notice and stop, to see what going on.

“Something wrong?” he asks, holding his bag in his hands.

T’Challa weighs him, and then visibly tries to relax.

Steve’s eyes flicker down to the papers. “Work?” he asks.

T’Challa slowly nods.

And Steve realizes what is happening right now, and perhaps what has been happening all along.

T’Challa and him are growing close, to the point where T’Challa has to hide that he is in fact investigating Steve, so Steve would get what was fair – which could possibly be a prosecution. And Steve, even though he knows, he has always known, feels oddly left out. Like of all of the things, which have happened, their friendship is fake.

“I’m just gonna go,” Steve slowly utters, because he doesn’t want to make T’Challa say it. As he grabs his pencil case and his sketchbook and quickly makes a retreat, he wonders if T’Challa has been so relaxed around Steve, because it was the way he really felt, or if it was because he wanted Steve to become loose, unwary. As Steve goes to the common kitchen, he tries to just tell himself that either wouldn’t matter, because it wasn’t a bad thing. Steve was an unreliable witness, who was suddenly important to find some dangerous people, and so as the conflict with Stark proved, they had to be both careful and wary of him. So he shouldn’t really blame T’Challa for this, and he shouldn’t be confused about it, after all this was just a wakeup call.

He has other friends.

But he feels emotional chaos inside, anxiety at the back of his throat in the disguise as nausea, and his mother always told him to take care of his mental health as much as his physical, so Steve admits to himself: He doesn’t want it to be fake. He likes T’Challa and he feels miserable of the thought that T’Challa would one day leave him. That when T’Challa’s eyes crease, he wasn’t ever really smiling at Steve. Steve doesn’t want to let go of him, let go of the care he has for T’Challa and replace it with cold. And now that he knows that he should, he feels even more upset by it, wanting to scream for T’Challa’s warm feelings of friendship like a toddler screaming for a lollipop.

This was ridiculous and stupid and made things even harder than they already were, but he had to take it seriously. Otherwise, he’d never be able to get over it.

He sits down on the couch in the living room and starts sketching. He needs to make a plan for this. He couldn’t change the outcome, the result. Inevitably, to society, Steve would either be mentally ill or dangerous, in their eyes. When they’ve stopped HYDRA, the chances that he could go back to his regular life, are few. He’d either be locked up and maybe “fixed” at some point, which either meant that they got to the bottom of his head, or he had to fake his way out. Maybe, Natasha wouldn’t give up their apartment, since she had the money to cover the costs of rent on her own, but he couldn’t imagine moving back into it, even though he is sure she’d let him. It’d be too close to fake comfort, and he knew the truth about her, and even if that didn’t change their friendship, he couldn’t be depending on her any more.

Or, he would be thrown in jail. He didn’t know what he’d do then, but at least that option was out of his hands.

So his future looks grim no matter what, so he can only try to understand what is going on right now. The question isn’t what is going to happen or what he is going to do. The question is, how he is going to do it.

He … has to come clean. Have a conversation with T’Challa, make it clear that T’Challa had the right to further the distance between them, and that Steve would understand that. Steve had to apologize for getting too close.

Steve sighs, and decides that it’s no use thinking about it any more. He has decided what he is going to do, and even if it was a silly bandaid which does nothing to fix the situation, he’s going to try his best.

He looks down at his sketch, and frowns. That… was not what he had intended. He didn’t know what he had intended, having kinda dozed off during most of the process, but.

But.

The sketch is from a first person’s point of view. Steve sees the leader of HYDRA’s big hands on a metal table; he just knows they’re the leaders. He’s looking down at large posters and small notes. At the corner of his vision, he sees the faceless man. The man has no shirt on this time, and Steve realizes that even though the man has a human body, the chest is filled with wires and cables, bringing life to the relief-like face. Beside the faceless man, stands Susan Storm. She has a gash on her forehead, her nose is broken, and she doesn’t look like the beautiful woman she was when she was kidnapped. She looks hard and sturdy, like she’s waiting for an attack.

Steve understands nothing of the blueprints.

He shifts the page, and tries to draw like he did before, bring up other visions, but his hands don’t have their own mind like they had before. All he can do, is try to sketch the faceless man in further detail.

He tries again with the leader of HYDRA, but since all of his dreams had been from the leader’s perspective, he can’t. He gets up, and throws a glance around, trying to quickly find out what he is going to do with the information, because he believes it’s reliable.

Steve looks up at the ceiling, and clears his throat. “Uhm. Excuse me, JARVIS?”

Immediately JARVIS replies: “How can I be at your service, Steven?”

“Uh,” Steve says, somehow unnerved by the fast response. “I just took a nap, and I think I have some information. But I don’t know who to give it to.”

“if you would please hold up your drawings towards the window, I can get a scan of the product.”

“Alright.” Steve holds up the papers, and a tiny black dot Steve never even noticed, flashes out a blue light, which scans the papers. JARVIS pauses as he processes it, and then he says: “I am sending the information to Sir. Dr. Banner, who is with him, has requested that you come in person, for a further questioning.”

“Alright.” An elevator opens in the foyer, and Steve quickly goes to it, feeling more and more like a bother. But this is what he is here for, so hopefully, this really is a vision even if Steve can’t remember dreaming it.

Or it will be a bust, and Stark will re-question his value.

Steve is trying to breath, when the elevator suddenly stops, and the doors fold up.

Pepper is there, in her suit and she looks tired, harassed and pissed, as she steps in. “Hello Steve.” She tries for a smile.

“Are you alright?” Steve asks.

“Just a long day. I’m gonna roast Tony so bad,” she sighs, and is about to rub her forehead, until she realizes that it would ruin her makeup. “And a terrible headache.”

Steve weighs her. “If you don’t mind, I can help with that last part.”

She eyes him up and down, and Steve is about to wither because if he can’t help people, then what can he do, but then she tilts her head and looks daring, and he suddenly understands why someone as perfect as her, has ended up as a CEO and Tony Stark’s girlfriend.

He reaches out, and she gingerly takes his hand, and he quickly locates the headache.

Plus, tinnitus.

“That’s not a headache,” he frowns, closing his eyes as he starts to trickle in relieving energies. “That’s a severe migraine. You shouldn’t be walking when you’re that much in pain.”

“It isn’t so bad,” she dismisses, as her face muscles start to relax, and the fine lines start to disappear. “So where are you going now?”

Steve tilts his head, noticing that JARVIS is slowing down the elevator. “I’m making prostaglandins by decreasing the cyclooxygenase activity,” he explains. “Now, I’m trying to lower your blood pressure, and converting that to an energy source, which will falsely raise your blood sugar, since you haven’t had any carbs today. It won’t replace a real meal though.”

He opens his eyes. Her cheeks are slightly redder, and her eyes seems more alert and bright. He will never tire of that sight of making someone feel better. “Do you feel better?”

“Yes,” she smiles. “Thank you.”

He lets go of her hand. “Take the time to have a meal, before it returns.”

The elevator dings, and abruptly she starts grinning like a shark, before she somehow tramples elegantly into the workshop. The music automatically turns off the second her pointy shoe front hits the floor, and Stark, who looks like he’s having a discussion with Bruce, turns around and smiles in surprise when he sees her. “Hey babe,” he says, kissing her briefly. “You look oddly alive despite your tone ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah, Steve was kind enough to give me a boost,” she smiles. “Now – “

\----

And in a sick form of energy, Pepper proceeds to absolutely tear her day apart, munch her appointments and the “panel” like they’re sunflower seeds and spits it out with viciously constructive criticism. Then she goes on to make Stark’s efforts this day her next subject, and she finishes her terror attack with a smile, a quick kiss to Stark’s cheek and strutting out of the workshop, knowing damn well that her destructiveness is apparently a turn-on for Stark, whose aura is flaring and pumping with love.

Stark then looks at him, remembers Steve’s existence and narrows his eyes, pointing at him. “I still don’t trust you. But your vision seems awfully precise and far above your expertise, giving happy pills to people –“

“Tony,” Bruce warningly says.

“It seems like we’re actually onto something,” Stark mumbles. “Something our dear head case can’t ever dream of understanding.”

“You, me or Bruce?” Steve dryly asks.

And Bruce’s lip kinda quirks, and Stark glares at him.

“Hilarious,” Stark comments.

“Oh, give it up.” Steve rolls his eyes. “You’re faster, stronger and richer than me, and you know I’m not dangerous.”

“Says who?” Stark objects.

“Says I,” Steve answers. “I just put a spell on your girlfriend, and you didn’t even blink.”

“Pepper isn’t as soft as people think she is,” Stark points out.

“But you love her, so you still want to protect her as much as possible,” Steve counters. “So, seeing as you don’t mind me helping the CEO of your company, give up the act and relax a little bit, me being jumpy probably won’t help anyone.”

Stark considers him, and then rolls over to his desk on his chair. “Awful lot of mouth you’ve gotten on you since last night.”

“Last night, you were worried about the people you are responsible for, including Pepper and your workers, being in danger and I can respect that.” Steve crosses his arms. “But I can recognize someone throwing their weight around when I see it.”

“I am not!” Stark indignantly objects.

“Yes, you are,” Bruce coughs.

“Not you too!” Stark dramatically throws out his arms. “Seriously, what do you have on everybody?”

“Probably simply being polite,” Steve answers, pretending to be thoughtful. “Also I’m tiny, frail-looking and big-eyed, and it makes people want to protect me.”

“He knows,” Stark whispers to Bruce. “Nothing can stop him now.”

“Is there anything else you want?” Steve asks, smiling now because he feels like he has at least settled one issue, he didn’t expect to settle anytime soon. Seems like Stark is rather fickle.

Stark makes grabby hands at the drawings, and Steve hands them over.

“JARVIS says that you simply just had a nap?” Bruce asks.

“Yeah,” Steve confirms. “I don’t remember dreaming at all, but I was lost in thought while drawing and when I got back to reality, I had finished the first drawing. The second is drawn from memory, since I’ve dreamed of Faceless before.”

“Still no names?” Stark asks, laminating the paper.

“No, sorry,” he apologizes. “I have a suspicion that they’re talking another language though. In my head, as I’m dreaming, it makes sense, but with the way the words are composed and the sayings, terms… they feel beyond unfamiliar to me. Misplaced, like the grammar is wrong, even though I somehow know it’s not. They have a signature greeting though ‘Hail HYDRA’, when they see each other off. And an octopus, the one you see on the leader’s cufflinks and Faceless’ shoulder.”

“JARVIS, look it up,” Stark orders.

“HYDRA. Noun: A minute freshwater coelenterate with a stalk-like tubular body and a ring of tentacles around the mouth. Genus Hydra, class Hydrozoa. Origin via Latin from Greek _hudra ‘water snake’_ named by Linnaeus because, if cut into pieces, each section can grow into a whole animal. 1) A many-headed snake in Greek mythology whose heads grew again as they were cut off, eventually killed by Hercules. 2) a thing which is hard to overcome or resist because of its pervasive or enduring quality or its many aspects. 3) The largest constellation, said to represent the beast slain by Hercules. Its few bright stars are close to the celestial equator,” JARVIS rattles off.

“Explains the symbol,” Stark mutters as the workshop lights up in colors and shapes and forms, and starts moving, his computers searching for the symbol with rapid speed.

Bruce is just looking at him oddly. “If what you say is true, and he’s speaking a language you’re probably not able to speak, I don’t think your perception is limited to the leader’s senses. If what you say is true, you’re deeply embedded in his brain processes.”

Steve thinks it over, and at last nods. “Yes, that would make sense.” He pauses. “But I still feel like myself, even when I am in his body.”

“Which means what?” Stark asks, trying to sound disinterested.

“It means that if I’m deep into his mentality and I am not overridden by his thought processes, there must be a possibility that he can feel me there,” Steve slowly lets out.

“That’s true,” Bruce hesitantly agrees. “There are too many variables and unanswered questions,” he concludes. “We need to continue more of our sessions, if we’re going to be able to answer at least some of them. Steve, if you can continue drawing as much as you are able to?”

“Sure,” Steve complies. “Where do you want me?” he asks.

“Just wherever it’s clean,” Bruce instructs with a crooked smile, and Steve looks at Stark, wondering when the protest will come, but Stark seems absorbed in his research. Steve locates a couch full with random gadgets and what looks to be spare parts of varying size, and sits in the corner. Bruce floats to him with a headpiece, and a tablet and instructs Steve to start drawing.

Steve looks at the pad, and closes his eyes, quickly casting the spell he forgot this morning and when he opens his eyes, the world looks different. Colorful. He knows that colors are not bad, even natural to people who have color vision, but to some extent color vision has always been disorienting, even chaotic to him.

“What did you do to my machine, Rogers,” Stark huffs in irritation and turns around in his swivel chair as the screen blips in front of him.

“Excuse me, do you want your drawing in color?” Steve snaps back, bowing down and tapping his way to the basic color program. He hasn’t drawn on tablets a lot, and definitely not on a Starkpad, but Stark has made the software surprisingly accessible.

“What did you do?” Bruce asks.

“Animated my cones,” Steve explains as he starts to draw a curve.

“You’re colorblind?” Stark asks, swirling around again and Steve sees his tablet start to shift colors in his hands. “Which kind?”

“Rod monochromacy,” Steve answers. “So adjusting the colors won’t help.”

“You can’t see  _ any _ color?” Bruce frowns. “Are your cones missing?”

“No, they’re just not working,” Steve tells him. “I can animate them temporarily, but since it’s a permanent defect, the spell is temporary.”

“Sounds like a serious problem to have as a witch,” Tony hums. “Don’t you mostly worship Satan and make particular flowers into voodoo?”

“That last part is Central-African witchcraft,” Steve sourly corrects, even though he knows Tony is jabbing him on purpose. “And usually, I have my glasses, which do the job for me. I think they got smashed on the Bridge.”

They don’t ask any more questions, and Steve tries to dip into the part of his mind, the stressed, anxious kind, and lets himself be soothed by the motions of his hands. His mind focuses on precision, forming, shading, but the usual zoom-out he does to take the picture into perspective feels distant, like he’s not really seeing it, only measuring what he needs to do next.

He saves the first picture when he’s done and starts a new one before he slips out of the flow.

He keeps drawing, and they’re not scenes, rather flashes, almost impressionistic pictures, glimpses of things he can suddenly remember every detail off.

By the end of it, when Natasha comes in like a snowstorm and extracts Steve from the couch, glaring at Bruce and Tony, his stomach is rumbling. He takes off the headpiece and they go upstairs and she leaves him with a bowl of tofu soup, peas, potatoes and chicken. So much has happened, and yet it was not even 24 hours ago, HYDRA was attacking them.

He picks at his food, and wonders about what he has been drawing for the past three hours, and it’s only when T’Challa comes into the kitchen, stretching (slipping a cut of his stomach), that Steve remembers how most of this even started.

He tries not to stare too intentionally at T’Challa as he starts roasting some eggs, and ends up sounding surprisingly calm, when he says: “I’m sorry.”

T’Challa turns around, his eyes questioning.

Steve bravely continues. “I didn’t mean to get this close to you. I’m sorry if I’m standing in the way of your investigation, or if I’m making you feel guilty about finding out the truth.”

T’Challa looks surprised for a moment, before he asks: -  _ What makes you think that? _

“Because… we are,” Steve hesitantly answers. “Maybe not you, but I feel like you’re my friend, rather than the person who might witness against me in court. And you looked guilty, when you saw me seeing you doing your thing, and I don’t want you to feel that.”

\-        _ Slow down,  _ T’Challa signs, now frowning. –  _ What do you mean by court? _

“I’m a criminal,” Steve says.

\-        _ But you know the state dropped the charges,  _ T’Challa replies.

“Still,” Steve says. “What if I’m doing something illegal without knowing or, or, orchestrating something, _ what if I’m HYDRA _ – “

T’Challa is shaking his head quickly, and Steve stops himself. –  _ Do not worry about being charged, S-T-E-V-E-N,  _ he signs.  _ – Until you’ve done something very wrong very intentionally, you’re not ending up in jail. And do you not remember you were being discharged by the time your friend and I came to get you away?  _ He asks.

“Sure, but... “

\-        _ What? _

Steve shakes his head. “I’m not reliable.”

\-        _ People in this country get out of jail and mental health facilities despite doing much more than you’ve done,  _ T’Challa informs, and his eyes are soft. –  _ You need to stop placing so much weight on your shoulders. I know all of this is complicated, dangerous, and of course it is, to a civilian. But I know that things are not as grim as they might seem. And therefore I find no apprehensions towards having a friendship with you. _

Steve stares at him. “You’re not just saying that to make me relax enough to drop my guard, are you?”

Instead of answering immediately, T’Challa smiles. –  _ You’ve been hanging too much with the Widow. _

Steve stares some more, tries to detect a lie or any insecurity in his face, but finds only reassurance. “Alright,” he says with a nod and with a small voice, he asks: “Can I have a hug?”

He feels embarrassed about the request immediately, and feels himself flush, but T’Challa pulls him in and Steve rests his forehead against his beefy shoulder.

“I’m sorry for being … like this,” he mummers.

He feels T’Challa shake his head. – _Y-O-U’R-E-G-O-O-D_ , he spells on Steve’s back and Steve smiles as he pulls back.

“Thank you, T’Challa,” Steve says shyly. “You’re awesome.”

The necromancer nods, and Steve looks at his shoes. Again, something seems to flicker in T’Challa’s aura, and Steve’s flickers in return. Steve wonders if T’Challa knows this is happening.

\-        _ There are some questions, I’d like to ask you _ , T’Challa asks, and Steve nods.

They silently go to their room, and T’Challa turns on the small bedside lamps. The papers, which were scattered all over before, are now neatly in their folders, and T’Challa picks up a notebook with handwriting in a foreign letter system. He sets it on his lap as he folds his legs in a lotus position, and he starts off asking: -  _ Were you hospitalized in 2301 January 5 _ _ th _ _ in New York University Hospital? _

Steve tilts his head, and thinks. “Yeah.”

\-        _ What were you admitted for? _

“Uh.” Steve stares blankly at T’Challa. “Car accident, I was told.” Slowly he continues: “I… don’t really remember a lot of it.”

T’Challa doesn’t show his thoughts as he continues looking at Steve. –  _ Do you remember your injuries? _

Steve nods. “Yeah, my legs were pretty much gone. But two days after I was admitted, the Protectors of Healers foundation funded a regenerative surgery. That’s how I found out about my mom.” He clears his throat. “Even though I was a legal adult, I was deemed fit for application…” He stops. “I don’t know why. I really don’t remember much.”

\-        _ When did you meet police chief S-A-M-U-E-L W-I-L-S-O-N for the first time? _

Steve squints, reminiscing the hazy memories. “He was the first person who was at the scene of the car accident. He was trying to contact my mom, and when he realized that she had gotten killed … he started visiting me regularly. I thought he got it into his head that he had to look out for me. That’s why he ended up suggesting becoming my familiar, when I needed one to finish my training.”

T’Challa considers him for a moment. Then he picks up a folder, and picks out a small stamped collection of paper, giving it to Steve.

Steve takes it and looks down. Graphic pictures of skinny legs, severely burned, are on the pages, and a short summary of the degree of burning and medical treatment is on the last page.

\-        _ What I don’t understand, is that the car accident, which reportedly happened that day,  _ T’Challa signs, and picks up a single piece of paper,  _ wasn’t a mechanical explosion, and no fire occurred. So how did you burn your legs? _

Steve reaches for the paper. It’s a report from the Protectors of Healers foundation, with a concrete explanation of the reason he was funded. He reads it quickly, dread filling up his stomach.

“It says I was a victim of a hate crime,” he realizes with a quivering voice. “And that’s why I was funded.”

\-        _ And S-A-M was the one who contacted them.  _ T’Challa points to a small paragraph of text in the corner of the document. –  _ And he was the one who told the hospital that you had been in the car accident. _

Steve closes his eyes, and then opens them quickly in case T’Challa wants to sign, but T’Challa is only looking at him patiently. “So what do you think really happened?” he asks.

\-        _ I think Sam Wilson is the only person who really knows what happened,  _ T’Challa explains. –  _ Or at least, had the most information on what happened. And I think the murder of your mother and – what I think – the attempted murder on you, are linked. Nationwide, the two of you were targeted by Red Hospital right after each other. _

He provides another document, this one with a graph and a map that shows where, how and when healers were harmed or killed by Red Hospital in 2301.

\-        _ I don’t think it’s an incident that they targeted a witch in the middle of nowhere, when Red Hospital mostly happens in the city, and then a witch, who weren’t even done with his training right after. I’ve contacted the L-O-U-I-S-A-N-A police department, to give me a report on what happened to your mother. The case is closed though, so it will take a while before the case can be opened again.  _ T’Challa leans back. –  _ But the fact that you don’t recall any of this, might be a lead onto what happened to you on the Bridge, and might give us more clues. However, there is something I need to ask of you. _

“I know,” Steve whispers, massaging his temples. “You want to call Sam in as a witness. But you can’t, since he isn’t legally sane, and so you need consent from his nearest of kind, in this case, his guardian. Which is me.”

T’Challa nods slowly.

“Can I think about it?” Steve asks. “I want to help with the case, and HYDRA and everything, but… he’s my familiar.” He meets T’Challa’s eyes. “I’m supposed to protect him. Especially now. And I’m not sure I’m doing that by dragging him into all of this.”

T’Challa nods in understanding.  –  _ I respect that. _

Steve nods as well, and picks up the pictures again. The skin looks like half-concealed lava, some of it with pus, blood and leaking wounds, other places black, dry and burned. What used to be his feet look like black raisins, the toes melted together and his bones showing.

Steve closes his eyes. –  _ Sam?  _ He calls out.

He can feel it reach Sam, but there’s not response. Not even any feeling. It feels like shouting into an empty big dark cave. The only thing he can hear is his call being echoed back to him.

He feels T’Challa’s hands lay themselves on his shoulders as they slump.

“I… I’m gonna go walk around for a bit.” He gets up, and T’Challa meets his eyes, before looking away. Steve feels like another hug, but he doesn’t want to be too clingy, so he gets up and leaves the suite.

He walks around for a while, and it has become dark outside. He decides to go up to the roof again, to enjoy the moonshine a bit, and feeling slightly delighted – maybe the moon goddess will throw some wisdom on him – he asks JARVIS to take him up.

The nymphs are all asleep, as they should be, and he sits on a bench and tries to charge. He wonders what his mom would do.

And then he sights it, and he wonders if it was here when he was there earlier in the day. Then again, he didn’t exactly explore the huge roof last time he was here, too busy conversing with the nymphs. It looks like a head and a neck.

He stands up and rounds the flower beds.

It’s a statue, tall and anthropomorphic. His skin is fire engine red, with steel-green edgy stripes down the sides of his head, shaping his face like a heart. Where his ears should’ve been there are only slight bulges. There are lines marked in his face, linear and cubistic, making his face human and yet far from it. His nose and lips are strangely human, soft-looking and realistic, despite how his entire form is made of various sorts of metals. The pointy tip of the heart on his face has a gem on it. Otherwise, he has normal clothes on, a brown sweater and slacks. But surprisingly enough, it’s his eyes which look the most human. Despite how they’re clearly not made to be, it really looks like they’re  _ looking _ at him.

He stands on the tips of his toes to touch his cheek. It’s cold and hard, and –

Steve yells and jumps back.

The statue – no  _ the person  _ deliberately blinks at him. “Hello,” he greets, his voice sounding oddly like JARVIS’ and yet more… determined? Mindful? Whereas JARVIS tended to sound dry and sarcastic. The gem on the person’s forehead glows subtly, as the person reaches out a hand.

Steve closes his mouth and stops yelling. “I’m… I’m sorry for that. I just assumed you weren’t…”

The person tilts his head. “Alive?” he asks. “Odd. People usually don’t notice my appearance too much in this city. Due to its multicultural and multiracial standards, it takes an effort to surprise a New Yorker.”

Steve desperately tries to calm his racing heartbeat, so he can at least try to look and seem polite. “Oh, it’s not your appearance,” Steve says, laughing awkwardly. “You don’t really have a …” Steve waves his hand down Vision’s body.

Vision stares at him. “Skin?” he asks.

“No, no, I mean, you don’t really have an, uh.” Steve stops himself and takes a deep breath. “I can’t see your aura. I haven’t ever encountered someone who didn’t have one, so I just assumed you …”

“Were an art piece?” Vision inquires, not looking insulted though Steve just indicated that Vision didn’t have the radiation a life force normally has.  

“Yeah,” Steve awkwardly admits.

Vision tilts his head. “So what made you realize otherwise?” he asks, sounding curious.

Steve shrugs, because he can’t really put it into words. “You, when I touched you…” This is just getting better and better. “You felt alive. Not like a… an organic person, but…” Steve tries to put it in the least offending words. “Your body has a voice, despite not being organic, which I haven’t encountered in other electronic…” Things? Devices? Wouldn’t that be comparing them to a very self-conscious, sentient, intelligent person? “You have a voice, but it’s like it’s speaking a language I don’t understand.”

“Interesting,” Vision notices, his head un-tilting eerily, almost like a click. “I have not ever acquired an injury, which acquired a healer – and I hopefully never will – so I am curious to know how my body is perceived through a healer’s sensors.”

“Oh,” Steve says, now concerned. “Is this body not your first one? How long time have you been in this body? Do you know anyone who can help you in case of injury?”

“That is a difficult question to answer, Steven,” Vision immediately answers, and that’s another very… inhuman thing about him. He answers immediately, almost like he processes everything much quicker and doesn’t need time to think. “As JARVIS informs me, he has made you aware that there are only three of us existing in the world. JARVIS is the first Ai created, as we know. He was created by Tony.” He says Tony much more informally than how JARVIS speaks about Stark. “He also created the global defense AI, Ultron, who was brought to life with the power of something alike this,” he taps the gem on his forehead, “JARVIS was eliminated. Some of JARVIS survived the destruction, and was later uploaded by Tony to a synthetic-tissue body, created by Dr. Cho. Together with the gem you see on my forehead, and the thunder of Mjölnir, I was created.”

Through the explanation Steve had a dawning feeling that this really wasn’t something he was supposed to know, and still, he has a feeling there’s much more to this than indicated. “So…” Steve frowns. “But how did JARVIS come back?” he asks.

“Pepper, as always, remembers to do the simplest things, which often turns out to be the most important,” Vision informs, and for the first time he smiles. It’s small, unnoticeable, like a secret. His lips are closed and the smile is barely the quirk of the corners of his mouth, and still it changes his face completely. “She had previously that year uploaded JARVIS to a hard drive, she kept in her private quarters.”

Steve’s brows jump. “Didn’t Stark himself think of that?” he asks.

Vision imitates a shrug. “I’m afraid, Tony has a hard time ever imagining a technological situation he couldn’t combat. He overestimated himself.”

“I see,” Steve mutters. “So… The three of you are brothers, because Stark created you all somehow.”

“We are only two now,” Vision informs. “Ultron has left us.”

“Oh. My condolences.”

“It’s quite alright. After all, I was the one who killed him in the end.”

Steve stares at him. “You don’t hang around people much, do you?” he asks.

Now Vision crosses his arms. The gesture looks surprisingly childish. “I prefer observing rather than interacting.”

“Because you’re a seldom kind?” Steve asks.

“Perhaps. If your reaction is anything to go by…”

“Don’t mind my reaction, most species can’t see auras naturally, especially not in crowds,” Steve shrugs. “You should go out more. People won’t be able to accept you, if they don’t know that you exist.”

“Naturally.”

Steve watches him for a bit, and then, slowly to show his intent, puts a hand on Vision’s arm. “You’re awesome. I’m sure there are so many people out there, who’d be glad to get to know you. Including myself.”

He tries to follow the statement with an encouraging smile, and Vision drops his arms.

“We could go out together?” Vision suggests.

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t think I can do that, Vision. I don’t think I’m allowed to leave the Tower, really.”

Vision looks thoughtful, and hums for a second. “You’ve been ordered to stay in the Tower, but you can leave it as long as you have an escort with you.”

“Really?”

“According to Director Carter,” Vision nods.

Steve can feel his face light up. “That’s a deal then. You get to talk to people, and I get to go out. It’s gonna be great.”

“As I’m sure,” Vision agrees, and his smiles again. “It’s quite late, though. Perhaps you shall consider retiring to bed.”

Steve looks up at the sky, and the moon is in zenith. “I guess. It was nice meeting you, Vision. Do you do hugs?”

Vision tilts his head again, and Steve realizes that he does it when he is confused. “I do not require physical affection, but if you’d like and can bear over with my cold – “

Before he can continue, Steve steps up, and hugs Vision around the waist. He is cold, feels almost soft and yet not. And Steve can feel his body buzz with activity and life, and that’s enough for him to not feel like he’s hugging a computer.

Hesitantly, Vision closes his arms around Steve’s shoulders, and they stand there for a longer time than most first hugs are.

Steve steps back, and smiles up at Vision.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just so you know, I’m gonna nag you tomorrow about your liver,” Steve warns as he stands up.
> 
>  
> 
> Wherein Steve is a nuisance and T'Challa just wants to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long break. Stuff like finals, other projects, you know the drill.  
> I hope you enjoy this chap!

“I met Vision,” Steve says as he opens the door to their room, excited and happy.

He halts when he sees that T’Challa has already gone to bed, the night lamp on.

The man really must be afraid of the dark.

Soundlessly Steve gets to work. He finds the proper equipment in his medical bag, and goes to immerse in the tub after having taken his clothes off. He slips into Sam’s body, and -

\- he is hanging over the edge of Grand Canyon, only one hand holding him up and he sees his family flying in wild circles underneath him in the deep darkness he wants to unite with so bad, but he can’t, _they’re in the way_ and Sam just wants to fucking die already, but he came here solely so they could prevent him from taking his own life, and he regrets it –

Steve is pulled up from the tub by a hand around his wrist, and he stares at T’Challa, blinking water out of his eyes.

T’Challa lets go of him, and signs: - _You looked like you were in pain. Please don’t do this again if no one is there to watch over you._

“T’Challa,” Steve says and grabs the seam of T’Challa’s shirt. “I will do what you say, I’ll call Sam in as a witness, but I want something in return.”

T’Challa’s brows jump, and he stands there and looks at Steve.

“Fix his wing,” Steve begs. “Please, fix his wing, he can’t keep going any longer, and – and Vision is made purely by synthetic tissue, right? Please, get ahold of this Dr. Cho, I will do whatever you want afterwards, I swear – “

T’Challa gently puts the tips of his fingers on Steve’s mouth, and nods. Steve stares at him in disbelief, not thinking things would work out this easy.

  * _If these are your terms as a witness, I can get a hold of Dr. C-H-O through SHIELD,_ T’Challa explains. – _After the mess with Vision and U-L-T-R-O-N, she cut off her collaboration with the Avengers and denied working for us, claiming she feared for her life and the abuse of her work. I think SHIELD is the closest we can get to her helping you._



“Really?” Steve asks. The request was a shot in the dark, and he had felt bad immediately about trying to make conditions for his help, when his help could protect others and himself.

But T’Challa doesn’t seem mad or unsettled.

  * _I will contact Director Carter. Get clothed in the meanwhile._



“Sorry for waking you up,” Steve apologizes, and T’Challa only nods, before leaving the bathroom.

Steve gets clothed and even blow-dries his hair. When he comes out, T’Challa has put the phone on the table.

  * _Director Carter ratifies. She will send a contract, which will state that SHIELD has met your condition in turn for information, and you’ll be expected to sign, or your condition will not be met. C-L-I-N-T has volunteered to be pilot. We’re going to get your familiar._



\----

A jet has somehow appeared on the roof. The flowerbeds have been pushed aside, and the wind nymphs are awake and curiously watching Steve and T’Challa as they board the jet.

The jet is surprisingly big, and there’s a guy at the pilot seats, who must be Clint; the guy who wasn’t too happy with Steve taking Natasha’s guestroom. He straightens as he sees them, and the first thing Steve sees is how utterly beat up this guy is. Both of his eyes are purple and yellow, his lip is split, his nose has obviously been broken before and he has a hunch in his back. Obviously there’s something wrong with his leg as well.

“Hey,” Clint calls out, his voice containing the empty clang of chronic insomnia. He limps a few steps, and only now does Steve notice his hearing aids. “I’m Clint.”

His aura is … funny. This guy can’t do magic, and it shows. Steve can’t describe it, since the colors and shapes are otherwise common, but it’s almost like this guy seems temporary, if that makes sense. Like he’s constantly dying and birthing. Like he’s… Regenerating all the time?

Steve reaches out for a handshake, and Clint hesitates, before he accepts it.

Steve is bombarded with what feels like thousands of circuits, feels like what New York City would’ve felt like if the traffic lacked were obstacles or traffic lights. It feels like an ant hill, or worse, an ant hill where every ant constantly communicated and constantly worked at the speed of lighting, like millions of hands –

Clint pulls back his hand.

“Are you a human?” Steve blinks, as black spots appears in his vision.

Now T’Challa looks nervous, and Clint looks like he’s gearing himself up for something.

“Relax,” Steve says, trying to hide his own surprise by their wariness. He doesn’t know what they expected, but obviously nothing good. “Do you want me to help you with those injuries before we take off?”

“Uh,” Clint says, and looks at T’Challa, who still looks expressionless. “They’re a pain in the ass, man, so I’d be very glad to. But can we do it when the Quinjet is in the air?”

“Of course,” Steve complies. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

Clint pulls him over to the square of seats in the middle of the jet, and helps Steve buckle in.

T’Challa walks over to the pilot seat, and starts the engine. The ramp closes and Clint goes to the second pilot seat. Steve can see them frantically signing at each other, and Steve decides this must be about Red Hospital. Why would they otherwise expect Steve to have a negative reaction to Clint?

Steve closes his eyes and tries to meditate, wanting to be calm before seeing Sam. The jet shakes as it surges into the sky. He’s glad he checked up on Sam the time he did, but he’s exhausted. He feels a little weird meeting Clint; perhaps they’re right about their expectations, because Steve does feel weird about meeting a human.

Steve has no more time to think about it, as Clint slowly walks over to him, asking: “You can unbuckle now. Where do you want me?”

Steve thinks about it, and then points to the seats wired into the wall of the jet. Clint nods and sits there, and Steve grabs his medical bag. “Is it alright if I get a feeling of your physiology before we continue?” he asks. “I haven’t really healed humans before.”

“Sure.”

This is just a day of awkward.

Steve holds Clint’s hand again, and is hit with the overwhelming rush, which Steve can now identify as human. There’s a massive amount of red and white blood cells, his immunity system is armored to the teeth and ready for battle. His cells are hyperactive, his skin breathes, and his brain is a chemical explosion of connections.

“So your body is doing its job pretty well on it’s own,” Steve concludes. “I’m just going to speed up the process, alright? When have you last eaten?”

“Uh,” Clint says. “6 hours ago?”

“What did you eat?”

“Chips?”

Steve looks at him, frowning. “And at noon?”

“Chocolate?”

It is mandatory to cross his arms to show his ultimate disapproval. “And breakfast?”

“Pizza,” Clint informs, sounding very proud.

Steve shakes his head. “You are aware that you body needs a lot of nutrients, and burns tehm quicker, right? Compared to most races.”

Clint shrugs and smiles sheepishly.

T’Challa turns away from the pilot seat, and signs that there are some protein bars and dry fruit in the emergency kit. Steve makes Clint eat them, before he puts his hands on his temples and starts the process of making the cells heal his knee, then the pain in his back.

“Your body is making it a real easy job for me,” Steve nonchalantly converses.

“Yeah, all healers say that,” Clint answers, his eyes closed. He has a southern drawl.

“Can’t imagine you need a lot of healers, healing that quickly.”

  * _You’d be surprised,_ T’Challa signs, and even Steve can tell he is being dry.



“What did he say?” Clint asks, opening his eyes.

Steve doesn’t answer Clint, and pauses the healing of the split lip, to take care of the dehydration headache, which has started emerging. Humans are fancy that way. Their body really tells them when it needs something, where races like dwarves and elves need timers to eat and drink.

“Heard about your fam,” Clint states, and T’Challa looks like he wants to bang his forehead into the wall. Apparently, Clint believes in talking about the elephant in the room. “I’m sorry.”

Steve shrugs, feel something inside of him churn. “Nothing you to be sorry about,” he dismisses.

He thinks it’s the end of it.

Then Clint opens an eye. “Nat and T’Challa told me not to mention my race. Because of your background, I mean.”

A nerve in Steve’s left eyelid twitches. “That would be foolish.”

Now Clint opens both of his eyes, and he sees T’Challa make threats of violence It doesn’t stop him: “Why are you doing this?”

Steve stares into the air, looks at the slanting walls of the Quinjet’s belly, the low rumble of the engine. “Way back witches were guardians of the forest and its creatures,” he ends up saying, citing his grandmother. “And you might not know, and your people might not remember either, but.” He feels around Clint’s scalp for bumps. “You used to be a creature of the forest too.”

\-----

When they reach the Grand Canyon, most of the harpies have already hid themselves. He thinks about how the predators have hidden in the deep folds of Grand Canyon for decades now. Steve recalls Sam telling him, that at first the harpies hung out in the Mediterranean coasts, but had fled to small, unpopulated volcanic islands, when humans heavily started to sail back and forth between America and Europe and Africa. How apparently, the African genetics Sam has, comes from the prisoners who had tried to drown themselves on their way to slavery, and how some of them had been saved by merciful harpies, how they had bred over the years, until the islands inevitably were invaded by humans and they fled all the way to Grand Canyon, where they had lived ever since.

Steve jumps out, and searchingly calls out for Sam. Like last time, the harpy doesn’t answer, and Steve runs out, shouting: “Darlene? Paul?”

T’Challa and Clint stand by the Quinjet, waiting as Steve’s eyes try to scan the darkness.

Steve goes to the edge, and looks down. It’s a long drop.

Steve takes to telepathy, and cries out for Sam. They wait for ten minutes, the landscape black and scary, before Steve hears the flapping of wings coming nearer.

Darlene flies up from the deep darkness, her great red feathers looking purple in the moonlight. She lands in front of Steve. She looks exhausted and weary.

“What do you want?” she asks and he can tell she’s mad at him. “So much time and you haven’t bothered to visit once? What kind of witch are you? How can you treat your familiar like this? Why haven’t you helped us at all?”

“I know, Mrs. Wilson. I should’ve done better,” Steve apologizes as he bows his head and makes himself small in front of her. Mrs. Wilson’s face shuts down. Rather than explaining himself, he lets her be mad at him. Telling her the story wouldn’t help her situation or make her feel any better. And what he said is true: He should’ve done better. “I’ve found someone who can help,” he tries instead.

“Nothing will be able to fix this,” Darlene cries out, her voice screeching in his ears. He can hear Clint and T’Challa sway and fall behind him, but Steve refuses to waver. Instead he turns down his hearing aids.

“Listen,” Steve says, afraid to touch her. He’s sure the rest of her pack is looking at the scene from the darkness. “I’ve found someone who can possibly fix his wings.”

Now she stills. She looks desperate and yet still furious. “What deals have you made, witch?” she screams, and Steve has to hold up a hand.

“Please stop screaming,” he asks of her. “Look at the men behind me. They’re my escorts, and if you keep hurting their eardrums and they want to leave because of it, I have to go home with them and then I can’t help your son.”

She exhales heavily, and now Paul also glides out of the darkness.

“What have you done, Steven?” Where Darlene was full of rage and desperation, Paul looked like someone consumed by melancholy and hopelessness. “I know he’s your familiar, but you can’t make deals with all sorts of people to save him. We can’t also lose you in the process of saving him. That’s not what he would’ve wanted.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” Clint drawls and steps up. Steve looks over his shoulder in surprise, and Clint looks awfully grim, yet determined. “Steve hasn’t made a deal with the devil or anything. It’s science. It, uh, a combination of human cells and synthetic body materials.”

“His wing can’t be healed. Don’t you think we’ve thought of that?” Darlene laughs almost hysterically. “Not even regenerative healers can retrieve all the tattered nerves in his wings. At most it will ”

“It’s not about retrieving,” Clint corrects. “It’s about recreating something out of synthetic tissue. The human cells will make his biology able to integrate the synthetic tissue with whatever’s left of his wing. It’s a whole new form of technology, and there’s currently only one person who can do it.”

Sam’s parents look at them for moment. Then Darlene sighs. “Nothing else to lose, right?”

They both jump from the edge without warning, and Steve turns his hearing aids up loud enough to hear the obvious fighting and harpy-screeching going on in the bottom of the cliffs.

At last Darlene and Paul fly up again, holding Sam in each arm.

Sam looks nothing like himself. His hair is overgrown and dirty, his limps skinny and his skin looks like rubber on bone. He has shed most of the feathers from his broken wing, and clawed at the skin left behind.

“Sam?”

The harpy doesn’t even react. He seems almost feral, his eyes wide and paranoid, his body shaking. He screeches loudly, and T’Challa flinches behind him.

“Sam,” Steve calls out again, this time more desperate. “Sam, it’s Steve, please – “

He tries to come closer, but Sam emits a warning screech, glaring at him.

“Sam,” Steve whispers, and Sam ignores him, fights his parents with all that his skinny body can muster, and Steve is not letting Sam do this, he is not –

“Sam!” Steve shouts, his voice booming with the power of a witch commanding their familiar. Sam immediately stills, snarling, and Steve tries to seep through a more soft kind of command, a reprimand rather than force.

“Get in the jet,” Steve lowly, but firmly orders. “Stop screeching. You’re hurting us.”

Sam starts heaving, and Steve sights a panic attack when he sees one.

“Hey,” Steve calls out, his voice smooth and clear. “I’m gonna protect you alright?”

He steps forwards, and Sam doesn’t react.

“I’m gonna protect you. You’re safe with me. Your life will be nothing like you imagined.”

He touches Sam’s feathered arms, and Sam’s large yellow eyes meet his.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” Steve continues. “No one is going to hurt you. You’re important and I love you. Nothing or no one will ever be able to replace you. So please. Let me help you.”

Sam stares at him, his eyes unseeing, but he is listening. Steve puts his arms around Sam’s waist and after a moment Sam’s parents let go of Sam’s wings. Sam doesn’t return the hug, but he doesn’t try to come loose.

Steve takes Sam’s clawed hand, and establishes eye contact with Sam, and tries to emit as many endorphins as possible. Sam hums a bit, and Steve hesitantly takes a step towards the open ramp. Sam automatically follows, and too focused to say goodbye and thank Sam’s parents, he leads Sam into the jet. Steve makes him settle on a stool as Clint and T’Challa get into the pilot seats and take off, and Sam folds his healthy heavy wing on top of Steve. Steve sighs and closes his eyes. Even when Sam feels fragile, weak and defenseless underneath Steve’s hands, feels like bone and paper, Sam is trying to ease him.

\----

Loud screeching awakens him and as he opens his eyes, he’s rewarded with the edge of a metacarpal to his head. He rubs his head and stays down, looking around underneath his fingers. The Quinjet has landed and the ramp is down. Outside the sun is starting to show, and most of the nymphs are peeping, curious and delighted with the drama.

T’Challa stands in front of Steve and Sam with crossed arms, glaring at Sam who is basking his wings in a universal sign of threat.

Steve reaches out and strokes Sam’s stomach, and Sam halts for a second, glaring down at Steve.

“Come on,” Steve gently chastises, standing up. His body hurts like a son of bitch. He whirls his arm around Sam’s waist, and Sam puts his wing on top of Steve’s shoulders. T’Challa quickly signs: - _The doctor is here. Follow me, and she’ll do a quick scan._

Steve does as is instructed, even as Sam persists hissing at T’Challa. Steve wonders how much Sam understands these days. He definitely is a lot less coherent than he used to be.

“He’s usually a really friendly guy,” Steve feels obligated to say.

T’Challa only shrugs.

A woman in modified scrubs stands in the huge lab Steve is led into. There’s a huge bed-like nest prepared on the floor, and a round disk.

“Put him on top of that, belly down,” the woman instructs, pointing at the round disk. Looking more closely, her scrubs have a high-collar, in colors Steve thinks are probably blue, and she is a petite woman with large eyes and black hair of East-Asian origin.

Steve urges Sam up on the round table, and Sam wheezes and hisses, his rib cage sinking and raising quickly in a starting flight-or-fight mode.

“We need to get him calmed down,” Dr. Cho says, now standing at the computers, their light reflected on her calm eyes. “I’ve taken a scan of his elevated state, but I need one where he’s not elevated as well.”

“Alright,” Steve says. There’s a strange feeling in his stomach, but he can’t tell what it is. “Will I interfere with the scan, if I come closer?”

“Just make sure you’re not too close to his wings,” she instructs, and Steve kneels in front of Sam, catches his eyes.

“You’re fine,” he hums. He grabs at his medical bag, and grabs the chloral hydrate he developed for Sam years ago. “Open your mouth.”

It takes ten stern minutes before Sam is lured into opening his mouth, and Steve immediately makes him drink a protein drink after having thrown in the pills. Sam gasps and starts gagging, but Steve sends relaxing agents to his muscles and soon enough the sedative kicks in.

Dr. Cho takes another scan.

“It will be done by tomorrow, if you can get him to lie still in the nest,” she says.

Steve stares at her, before quickly getting Sam to his feet. Sam is tired and heavy, and not happy to cooperate.

When Steve has gotten Sam into the nest, Steve walks over to her. “What is going to happen?”

“This is the Cradle,” she says, and moves a machine over to Sam, pushing some buttons until it beeps. “It produces synthetic tissue. It grafts a simulacrum of organic tissue to the patient. It contains human cells, which will make the cells of the subject assimilate no matter its compound, so the body won’t reject the artificial matter.”

She talks like she’s used to being asked that question, used to people not understanding it and like she’s trying to make her work seem simpler than it is. Steve stares at her, and is starting to realize what the feeling in his stomach is. He has to bite his tongue, so he won’t say anything stupid. If he says something, she might not help Sam, or she might think he is ungrateful.

“If you would step away please,” Dr. Cho says when Sam has fallen into a restless sleep.

Steve steps away, and uncomfortably crosses his arms.

“He will still require physical rehab for at least 4 weeks,” she tells him. “Visit Stark’s Medical Bay. They will help you.”

“Alright.”

_Just that?_

It wasn’t alright. It wasn’t. Harpies died yearly because of their loss of flight, over 2000 amputees walked around New York, people got hurt in a fires and had eternal face disfigurations, couldn’t move their arms and legs probably, people got in car accidents, got assaulted and cut up, and this was literally the only thing she had to do to fix all that.

“I can’t believe you,” Steve says, and then clenches his jaws to try and stop the flow.

She looks at him, surprised that he spoke up. “Excuse me?”

“Are you telling me you have this sort of technology available and the process is that easy?” Steve can’t help but bitterly answer. At least he isn’t shouting. He doesn’t want to seem threatening. “And only S.H.I.E.L.D. and the people of your own choice have access to it?”

He knows it’s wrong, but as he thinks it, he inevitably thinks _Humans,_ his heart full of venom. He tries not to let the hate win, tries not to let trauma and fear overcome forgiveness, he said he’d never hate humans for what some of them did, but fuck it.

“I invented it, and what I choose to do with, is my right,” she coolly answers, her face closed down.

“You’re also actively denying people care,” Steve hisses. “What you made isn’t a toaster. You made it to … to _help_ people, and it’s collecting _dust_.”

“I realize we have different beliefs and principles,” she brushed him off, not moving. She has crossed her arms, and is standing stiffly. She’s scared, Steve realizes. “I won’t interfere with yours, if you don’t interfere with mine.”

“Unbelievable.” Steve’s voice is rising, shaking. “Thousands of people die every year, and you can prevent it. Don’t make this about different life styles, this is indirect man slaughter.” He snarls, and her face breaks. He has to take a deep breath. “I was just lucky, because I’ve been shagging up with the Director. My familiar would’ve been dead, and you wouldn’t care a second,” he mumbles. “How can you live with yourself?”

“You know nothing,” she snaps. “You have any idea how much my life is threatened just by being here? To provide help for the Director’s _ex_?”

“Oh no, I’d know nothing about that,” Steve hisses. “’Cause it wasn’t healers, but human doctors who were and are mass murdered by Red Hospital.”

Her eyes widen. “You’re a…”

“Don’t,” Steve says. “I can’t find a job, because the protection I require because of Red Hospital, is too expensive. I was homeschooled, barely know my way around modern medication and I would never be smart enough to make something like the Cradle. I’m nothing like you.”

She doesn’t answer.

Steve takes a deep breath, and hangs his head, rubbing his eyes, which are starting to hurt. He feels heavy now, his body empty of all the anger it harbored a second ago. Instead of forcing himself to apologize, he deliberately rounds the Cradle, and sits down to watch Sam’s strained face.

\----

At some point Natasha comes in and harasses him out of the lab, saying she’ll take over the watch. She’s a friend of Sam as well, and trusts her to be there for Sam.

Heavy on his feet he drags himself back to his bedroom, and finds T’Challa already sleeping on the bed. Steve goes to shower, hoping his fingers and toes will be warmed up by the time he gets into bed.

Standing in the bathtub, he quickly lathers his body with scentless soap, and washes it off, but as he is about to step out of the tub, his vision gives out, the world blackens, nausea wells up in his throat and he feels like throwing up. He prevents the fall to the floor with his hands, rolls and grabs the toilet seat as acid-sour bile pours out of his mouth. He tries to puke silently, but his face is hot and his eyes are watering. After he is done, his throat is burning and overcome with exhaustion he lies down a little bit. The bathroom has underfloor heating, and besides the feeling of his crystal bones pressing against the hard floor, it’s not too uncomfortable.

He breathes for some seconds, before he begins to drag his body up.

  * _Steve?_ Bucky calls out. – _Can you make the doorman let me in?_



Steve frowns. – _Where are you?_

  * _In front of the Tower, and the guy doesn’t want to let me in._



Steve frowns even harder, kinda wondering how and why Bucky is on land. He deliberates his actions for a moment, before he accepts that it will take a while for him to be able to get up.

“T’Challa?” Steve calls out. He closes his eyes and listens for a sound indicating T’Challa’s wakefulness, but it’s silent. “T’Challa?” Steve yells louder.

Immediately there’s a knock on the door.

“T’Challa, Bucky is here,” Steve informs. “I don’t know what he has done, but he’s outside. Can you make the doorman let him in?”

He doesn’t know what T’Challa’s response is, but T’Challa knocks on the wall as he leaves the room, so Steve can hear him fading away. God, Steve is the biggest asshole. Not only did T’Challa help him retrieve Sam, get him help, been up with him all night, but now Steve is wakening him up again because he can’t stand up.

He decides he’s going to make pancakes or something in the morning. Raid the fridge and find out what he can do to make it up to T’Challa; JARVIS would have to tell Steve, what kinda foods T’Challa doesn’t like.

Steve stares at the bathrobe hanging on the wall and wills it to slide over to him, and the bathrobe falls off its hinges and slides over to him. He picks it up, and with difficulty he puts it on, before slowly dragging himself to his feet and cleaning his mouth with mouth wash. The world is grey and hazy, and he flushes the toilet, sluggishly cleans the toilet seat and sprays some air-freshener around. He exits the bathroom and waits in front of the elevator until it opens.

The first thing he sees is T’Challa’s weary tired face, before he looks at Bucky’s grinning one.

Then he looks down.

And blinks.

“Where is your tail?” Steve asks.

Bucky is supporting himself to the iron grip on the wall, and with unsure steps he walks over to Steve.

“I made a deal with a sea witch,” Bucky tells him. “And I even got a discount. Aren’t they pretty?”

He sticks out a thick, muscly leg and almost falls. Steve darts forwards and grabs a bicep while T’Challa takes a hold of Bucky’s other arm. Bucky chuckles.

“I haven’t quite gotten a hang out of it yet,” he lets them know. “So, where is my room?”

Steve stares at him and then quickly glances at T’Challa, who has made his face carefully neutral.

“Hey, I’m your familiar,” Bucky says, clearly knowing what Steve is thinking. “Legally, I have the right to follow you anywhere. The same goes with Sam. How is he by the way? He gradually stopped talking to me.”

“He’s here,” Steve answers and sighs, before leading Bucky to the bedroom he was living in, until T’Challa and he decided on their current sleeping arrangements. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow morning, alright? Right now I need to sleep, and then I’ll figure out what to do with you.”

“Not really anything you can do,” Bucky cheerily lets him know. “I’ve already done the paperwork.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asks, rising worry making his headache even stronger.

“The marines contacted SHIELD, and demanded their right to get in on this case, seeing as HYDRA’s HQ were and possibly still is, in the sea. They funded the leg spell, and SHIELD accepted me as their diplomat and consultant.”

  * _Are you also the A-V-E-N-G-E-R-S consultant?_ T’Challa asks.



“Not officially, no,” Bucky shrugs. “But me being Steve’s legal familiar, gives me the right to be here. And technically, I’m not prohibited from extracting the information I can, seeing as the Avengers are part of SHIELD.”

“The Avengers,” Steve mummers. “I’ve heard that before. What is it?”

“SHIELD’s counter-attack team,” Bucky nonchalantly explains. “Composing of Tony Stark, Natasha Romanoff, Thor Odinson, Bruce Banner, T’Challa, Clint Barton, Wanda and Pietro Maximoff, and Vision. They’re hired to take on whatever threatens the Symbiosis and the overall security of the world.”

Steve stares at him. “You knew about Natasha?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking apologetic. “I found out during a case. I couldn’t tell you, since you were a civilian and all of it were classified.”

“But you told me about Peggy?” Steve asks in confusion.

“Because fuck her,” Bucky viciously exclaims. “I was suspended for that,” he says a bit more relaxed even sounding kind of proud.

Steve feels like banging his head into the wall.

“T’Challa thank you for your help,” Steve says, looking at the man. “I’ll take it from here. I’m so sorry for waking you up.”

“Talking about that, you smell like puke,” Bucky notices and Steve steps on Bucky’s foot, only because he wants to introduce Bucky to the feeling of having human legs.

Bucky flinches and glares at Steve, who smiles at him.

“Goodnight, T’Challa,” Steve nods at him, and T’Challa signs an answer, before walking towards their bedroom.

As soon as T’Challa is out of earshot, Bucky’s face turns serious.

“Seriously, what’s wrong?” he asks.

“Your involvement,” Steve growls. “How permanent is that spell? What are the consequences? What is this going to do to your physiology?”

“I thought you said you’d chew me out tomorrow?” Bucky mutters in disappointment. “The effects are what to be expected, rehabilitation, etc.”

“And you haven’t done a rehabilitation yet, have you?” Steve accuses.

“I took a speed course,” Bucky says, and Steve pulls at his hair.

“Ow!” Bucky exclaims. “That was low!”

Steve opens the door to his room, and Bucky stomps in with shaking legs. He sits down on the bed, and crosses his arms.

“Come on, get it out,” he says in that annoying non-caring way which always made Steve’s blurt out the truth. “I can see you boiling in your own skin, come on. I’m a jackass operating behind your back, because I think I know best.”

“Yes!” Steve exclaims.

“And you think this is a mess as it is, and adding me to the equation is only going to make it even more confusing.”

“Yes!”

“Well, it’s not!” Bucky argues.

“It is!” Steve says.

“I’m gonna help you through this!” Bucky insists. “Whether you like it or not!”

T’Challa bangs on the wall, and Steve quickly withers. “I can get by on my own,” Steve whispers. “Natasha and Peggy are watching my back, and T’Challa is doing what he can.”

“Come on,” Bucky groans. “You feel safe in the hands of the woman who made you emotionally sterile, and the guy who is trying to find evidence to throw you into a psychic ward?” he asks. “Yes, Peggy made the government drop their charges, but I know her. After all of this, she will probably take advantage of the protection SHIELD gave you.”

“How exactly?” Steve says, but he knows it’s true. Peggy is just as stubborn as Steve, and she will find a way to fix them. Not out of love, but rather out of guilt, which is the worst part. “I will settle things between me and Peggy. So what of it?”

Bucky inhales deeply. “Listen, I know you like T’Challa. Natasha’s been giving me information here and there, and I know he likes you as well. But you need to let your guard stay up, Steve. You can’t let him know too much about you. You need to stay valuable in his eyes.”

“So I won’t end in the psych ward,” Steve says rather than asks.

“Yes,” Bucky says. “We have Natasha, and that’s where our trust ends.”

Steve opens his mouth, and then thinks about T’Challa being tired, and Ms. Hand coming over in two days. He exhales and then points at Bucky. “This is not over.”

Bucky answers with a smile, and Steve asks him if he wants to be drawn a bath. When Bucky declines, Steve asks JARVIS if the kitchen have some fresh fish on hand. Which they have, JARVIS lets him know, and after some minutes, the food is sent up with a robot.

In the middle of Bucky eating the raw fish, JARVIS lets him know, that Mr. Stark requires Steve’s presence.

Feeling nervous and yet geared up to fight (a mood Steve finds himself a lot in recently), he takes the elevator up.

\----

The dwarf waits in the same living room, Steve met him in the first time he met him. Stark pushes away the steak, potatoes and weirdly, Berliners, as Steve steps in.

Steve sits down without having been asked to. He might as well get comfortable. He’s not sure what Stark wants to talk to him about, but it’s 4 in the morning, so it must be immediate. Hopefully Stark won’t throw Steve out of the Tower.

Stark drinks some water, leaves Steve waiting, and Steve tries to remember Peggy’s advice: Don’t ever let anyone know you’re nervous. Don’t let them smell your fear.

“So you haven’t even been in the Tower for 48 hours,” Stark says, clapping his hands together. “And somehow you’ve already moved two people into my Tower without my permission, _and_ you bothered one of my close friends who was gracious enough to help you and your familiar. When I asked JARVIS not to bother me while I was working, I didn’t think you’d have piled this much shit up in such a short time.” Stark glares at him. “Pepper is trying to teach me how to talk to people in a respectful, gentle and non-hyperactive manner, so here it is: We’re helping you, and I honestly don’t think you fully appreciate it.”

Steve tilts his head, but Stark’s effort makes Steve drop his parades a bit. “I agree. I’m being a bad guest. I apologize for that. I hope it won’t happen again in the future.”

Stark’s brows jump up. “You _hope_?” he snaps, all attempts at diplomacy gone. “This is not a request. This is a fucking demand.”

Steve calmly lifts a brow, even as his heartbeat goes up. “What are you going to do?”

“Excuse me?” Now Stark doesn’t look frustrated anymore. He looks acutely aware, like he’s seriously starting to think about Steve as a threat. Well, there goes the progress and banter this morning.

“You heard me,” Steve continues because he’s an idiot. “What are you going to do? Did you let JARVIS talking as he was enumerating my ‘pile of shit’, because I actually didn’t orchestrate any of this. Bucky is a Marines diplomat sent through SHIELD, so it’s not exactly something I had control over. And yes, it’s because he’s my familiar he can be in this Tower, but that was him making that decision, not me. If you want to blame someone, blame the Marines: they took advantage of Bucky’s legal familiar right to be near me.”

“It’s a legal _right_?” Stark repeats. “You’re fucking with me.”

“You don’t know because most familiars are animals, so it really isn’t talked about a lot,” Steve shrugs. “One of my familiars is medically deemed insane and the other one doesn’t have legs. How would I know they would end up here?”

“But you negotiated with T’Challa to get your familiar here,” Tony argues.

“Of course I did,” Steve huffs. “Sam, Bucky and Natasha are all I have, Stark.”

Stark widens his eyes and looks nervous, like he’s afraid Steve is going to cry.

“Not all of us have access to the whole wide world,” Steve continues. “I don’t have any money. I don’t have any career. All I have is this position, the information I can provide. My familiar has been trying to kill himself. Are you telling me you wouldn’t have done the same if you stood in my place?”

“No, but …“ Stark throws out a hand and wiggles it, like it is in actuality explaining stuff on its own. “It just doesn’t look good, kid.”

Steve shrugs again. “I would’ve helped you catch HYDRA either way. But I needed to take advantage of the resources I have, which is SHIELD.”

“Then just ask for help.” Stark throws out his arms like it’s that simple. “No need to be a dick about it, and demand a ransom.”

Steve lifts his brows. “But Dr. Cho only works for SHIELD now, not for the Avengers.”

“You shouldn’t have clearance for that,” Tony mutters, before continuing: “Speaking of Dr. Cho. What is your problem with her?”

“None,” Steve coolly says. “I expressed my opinion. I normally wouldn’t, but I felt very strongly on the area.”

“But you have no idea what makes her handle the Cradle the way she does,” Tony argues.

“Sure I don’t,” Steve agrees. “Except that she created Vision’s body.”

Abruptly, Steve stills as puzzles start clicking into place. JARVIS was an AI. Ultron was an AI with a gem. JARVIS was eliminated. JARVIS became Vision with the gem, Dr. Cho’s synthetic-tissue body and ‘Mjölnir’s thunder’. There could be other bodies created by the Cradle, but JARVIS told Steve there were only three AI’s in the world. Something happened which made Dr. Cho stop working for the Avengers. And obviously, it wasn’t the creation of Vision.

He tilts his head. “Ultron. The defense AI, you created. He was the one who terminated JARVIS, wasn’t he?”

“Who told you that?” Stark stands up, and nears Steve.

“I’ve been provided bits and pieces,” Steve says, leaning back. “It was just a guess.”

“Dammit.” Stark turns and walks towards the bar, pouring a generous tumbler of whiskey on the rocks.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too early to drink?” Steve nags, crossing his arms.

“You’re a fucking pain in every way possible,” Stark groans as he closes the lid on the whiskey.

Steve doesn’t answer that, and Stark takes a sip, staring at Steve, estimating. Like Steve is a puzzle piece, which he doesn’t know what to do with, and putting it to the side until the solution shows up obviously only made a bigger mess.

“So,” Steve starts, when he thinks the staring has been going on for long enough, “Ultron terminated JARVIS. Which means Ultron must’ve been bad. If there are only three AI’s out there, Ultron must’ve been the one to have abused her work.” He narrows his eyes. “He tried to make himself a body, didn’t he?”

“I’m not answering that!” Stark calls out, abruptly making a circle and walking into what must be a home office. The suite is surprisingly small, now that Steve notices. “It’s purely speculation!”

“And you were the one who made Ultron,” Steve wraps it up. “That’s why you’re so protective of her. You feel _guilty_. Now the Avengers don’t have the Cradle anymore.”

Stark comes back and sits down in front of Steve, slamming a set of papers on the table. “Sign these.”

“What are they?”

“An Avenger-related confidential,” Stark gamely answers. “If you’re staying and continuing to stick your nose into our business, you will sign those papers.”

“Or what?” Steve challenges, as he reads.

“I will sue the shit out of your ex.”

Something inside of him bristles at the thought of someone harassing Peggy, but he quickly suppresses it. “Please do sue her. I would be glad.”

Stark holds his eyes. “She really must’ve run you over. Is that why she’s so determined on saving your skinny ass?”

“Yup. Luckily, you don’t need to threaten me. May I have a pen to sign these with?” he asks.

“In the red ice bucket on the counter,” Stark nods towards the bar counter, and Steve tries not to ask why there are pens in ice buckets. Must be Pepper.

Steve gets up and searches. There are three buckets with VODKA, BAILEY and TEQUILA spelled on them. “Which one is it?” Steve asks.

“The red one,” the man says again.

Steve sighs, having hoped that Stark would either have described the position or spelling on the bucket. “And which one is that, Stark?” Steve ends up hissing.

“The middle one,” Stark answers, a bit softer now. “Can’t you just do your eye thingy?”

“My _eye_ _thingy_ only works to an extent,” Steve answers, opening the bucket and finding it empty of ice, but full with pens, erasers, highlighters, clips, staples and tape. Walking back with the pen, he checks if the papers are double-sided.

“Oh, and I need you to write something in that box.” Stark leans over and taps at the bottom box where it says _Additional agreements:,_ as if Steve is now dyslexic. But it’s the thought, which counts, right? “You will help Pepper through her migraines, flues and headaches if she requests.”

“I like how you don’t like me, and yet you trust me to help your girlfriend,” Steve notices, writing down the agreement.

“If the super-paranoid Arachnida trusts you, then so do I,” Stark mumbles. “Besides, she likes you and rejects medication for the pains, so.”

“I don’t blame. I hear the side effects can be terrible.” Steve pricks his finger with the pen and drips the blood on the paper, before signing it.“She seems like a nice lady.” He slides the contract across the desk. “Happy now?”

“No, but it will have to do,” Stark says in irritation.

Steve looks at him for a moment. “You’re moody. Something bothering you?”

“Yeah, you.”

Steve smiles teasingly. “Aw, come on. You’re a businessman and innovator in this day and age. I’m insignificant in your standard of stress.”

Stark grunts, and drinks more. There are scratching marks on his arms and fingers, Steve notices. His hands have red blotches. Steve frowns. He has heard of Stark’s drinking binges, and the scandals they usually lead to. But is it possible…?

“Excuse me for interrupting your conversion, but I believe your familiar requires your assistance, Steve,” JARVIS speaks up.

“Just so you know, I’m gonna nag you tomorrow about your liver,” Steve warns as he stands up.

“Anything I can do to possibly prevent it?” Stark moans.

“Nope. Get some sleep.”

“Don’t order me around.”  
Steve steps into the elevator.

“And it’s Tony!” Stark calls out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- Steve, we’re being attacked, he suddenly hears Bucky shout. – Get out of the Tower, they’re coming for you!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my German is shit and my beta, Imoshen88 with the red flowing hair and olive green eyes, corrected it, so if there are any errors, all blame on her :P If there are any Germans out there, I'm open to getting corrected, and sorry in advance if either of us slaughtered ur language.
> 
> Look at the end Author's Note for warnings about death!

When Steve gets to the lab, Natasha is talking soothingly to Sam who is holding his hand over his eyes, as if the lights are hurting him.  

Steve nears him with quiet steps. “Hey, Sam,” he greets, as if everything is normal. He can tell that Sam is far less feral than before, and briefly wonders how that works, before he asks: “How are you?”

Sam doesn’t answer, but he drops his hand and follows Steve with big stark yellow eyes. Wordlessly he reaches out, and Steve meets him halfway, grasping his hand tightly. He makes Sam’s brain produce more endorphins, and waits for the familiar’s heart rate to go down, before he looks at Natasha and says: “Thank you for the help, Natasha. Could you do me one last favor and draw a bath for him in the medical bay?”

Natasha wordlessly nods, and asks: “Do you want help transporting him?”

“No, I think I have it,” Steve answers and Natasha wordlessly leaves them.

“We’re gonna have a bath, Sam,” Steve informs in a low, soft voice and strokes Sam’s marginal coverts, flicking away some dirt. “We’re gonna get you all cleaned up, so we can test your wings tomorrow.

_ \- Don’t lie to me _ , _ Steve _ , Sam whispers in Steve’s head.

It’s the first thing Sam has said to Steve in a while, and Steve feels like crying out of joy. And discouragement? Steve can work with that. It’s better than silence.

“Alright, I’m moving you,” Steve lets him know, but he puts his hand on Sam’s cheek and holds it there for a while, before placing one of his arms underneath Sam’s knees and the other underneath Sam’s back. Steve moves Sam’s legs over the edge of the bed, and pivots the familiar’s body so Sam ends up sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Sam, now I will need your help,” Steve says, and cradles Sam’s face in his hands. He catches Sam’s glazy eyes, and holds them until Sam focuses in on him. “I can’t carry you on my own, as much as I wish I could.”

Steve could with a little magic, but Sam isn’t paralyzed. He needed to learn already now that he has to help himself.

“So you need to use your legs, okay?” Steve continues.

When Sam nods, Steve positions Sam’s feet slightly apart.

“Put your hands on my shoulders,” Steve instructs, and Sam puts his claws on Steve’s shoulders, clenching, but not enough to hurt or to rip Steve’s shirt.

Steve places his arms around Sam’s back, and clasps his hands together. He takes a deep breath. There’s no lifting belt in the lab, so he’ll have to deal. He straightens his legs, and lifts Sam with his thighs. He shifts and leans back, and Sam gains strength in his feet. Steve carries him a few feet before Sam starts to walk on his own.

They take the elevator down, where Natasha is waiting. She leads them to a room at the end of the hall. There’s a huge, round basin in there, steaming hot with steps and support handles. The walls are blue and the lighting is dimmed. Steve helps Sam into the basin, placing Sam so his body is submerged and supported on the steps, before leaving the tub, soaked.

“Thanks Natasha, I’ve got it from here,” he says. “Go sleep.”

“Let JARVIS know if you need me,” she says, and kisses his cheek before leaving. Steve sits behind Sam’s head, and lets Sam close his eyes and relax for a bit.

_ \- When the wing is in the water, I don’t notice it not working. It just floats. Like it normally would _ , Sam confesses as he relaxes.

Steve gets up and rummages in the cabinets for something to wash Sam with. “It’ll be okay, Sam.”

_ \- Is my wing really fixed _ ? Sam asked, opening his wet eyes to look at Steve in something resembling with what Steve can only describe as hopeless hope. It’s not desperation, it’s too soft and round for that, but it’s far too knowing to be hope. -  _ I can feel it, but I haven’t dared moving it.” _

“It should be. But we won’t know until you try,” Steve admits, as he puts some shampoo in his hands and starts rubbing it into Sam’s scalp. His hair has gotten longer and looks like it hasn’t been washed or combed for at least a week. Sam used to care so much about his looks. Especially his hair. Steve starts to massage his scalp. “You can try moving it underwater, and tell me how the feedback feels.”

_ \- No, I’m too scared, _ Sam whimpers, his face distorting in a mask of despair as his eyes water. - _ You don’t know how it feels when I move it, hoping so desperately that it will magically work, and it won’t. _

“I’m sorry.”

_ \- Flying is everything I am, Steve _ , Sam continues, sobbing. -  _ It’s integrated in everything I do. _

Steve doesn’t know what to reply to that, so he just gulps in a painful clump of air, as he feels his eyes become wet, silently resenting his obvious empathy. “You’ll get through this, Sam,” Steve assures. “You will.”

Sam doesn’t answer, his eyes glazing over again, and Steve finishes shampooing his hair. He washes it away, and rubs in conditioner, and lets it sit, as he moves down into the basin again, and starts scrubbing Sam’s body free from dirt. The water quickly darkens, and Steve makes JARVIS empty the basin and refill it two times before he’s sure Sam’s body is clean. After that he slowly starts to comb Sam’s hair, quickly becoming frustrated, but finding it easier when he combs it in sections and combs it from end to root.

After that, JARVIS turns on a drying system in the basin, and Steve picks and cleans Sam’s feather coat. The Cradle made new feathers grow out where Sam had picked his own, and Steve makes sure to get all the dirt out of the other wing, before trying to get on Sam’s clothes.

A sleepy Bucky meets him in the elevator, having put out a mattress for Sam and they move Sam to the mattress. Steve wraps the wing in bandages to make sure Sam won’t pick at the feathers.

Sam falls asleep, and he looks a tiny bit peaceful, resting in the moonlight, clean and wrapped up. But there’s something off about him, which Steve can’t pinpoint.

“Is it just me, or does he look … grey?” Bucky asks.

“He does,” Steve realizes. “Even his hair looks ashy.”

Steve and Bucky look at each other.

“Ashy,” they repeat at once, and Steve goes to the bathroom. He finds a body lotion and is irritated with himself for not noticing sooner. He goes back, and sprays the body lotion on all of the areas, which are not too sensitive for moisture, and then wonders about Sam’s hair.

“Maybe the lotion will work there too?” Bucky guesses.

“No, he has a shelf full of special hair products,” Steve mumbles. “JARVIS, do we have coconut butter?” He thinks he’s seen Sam put coconut butter on just about anything.

Jarvis pauses. “Yes, Steven, but sadly the staff has retired for the night and the kitchen is locked. They will be back in two hours. Nor you or your family have gained clearance to visit the office floors.”

“Maybe T’Challa has some to spare,” Bucky proposes, but Steve immediately rejects the idea of waking him up. He has disrupted T’Challa’s sleep enough lately.

“We will have to ask the kitchen tomorrow,” Steve decides.

“Fine, but then you should go get some sleep,” Bucky decides, putting his hands on Steve’s shoulder. “I’ll take this watch. I know you have some re-scenting to catch up with.”

Steve punches Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky giggles.

“No, seriously,” Bucky says. “Go sleep.” He hugs Steve. “You did everything you could today. I think you did great.”

“I couldn’t have done it without any of you,” Steve whispers back, and lets himself feel Bucky’s body – slightly warmer than usually – before being let go. He squeezes Bucky’s hand, before kneeling to make sure Sam’s duvet is tugged in properly and kisses Sam’s cheek.

\----

When Steve returns to T’Challa and his bedroom, his body is heavy as lead, T’Challa is sleeping on his back and the nightlight is turned on. Steve changes his clothes and sneaks into the bed before turning off the nightlight. He spends a few minutes there, trying to breath as the day settles in and his body falls down from the stress. His breathing sounds like wind blowing in his ears, and as he tries to sleep, he tosses and turns, restless and anxious.

He feels a hot, heavy arm fall down over his chest, when he’s trying to do breath exercises while staring at the wall. He holds his breath as T’Challa pushes Steve into him, and Steve puts his hand on T’Challa’s wrist, as he starts to shake, his breath coming faster. T’Challa slowly starts to rub Steve’s arm, comforting, and holds Steve through the room’s dark shapes twisting, sounds becoming loud and his ribcage aching like breathing without gasping for breath is suddenly such a hard job to do.

And then…

T’Challa starts to hum.

Steve freezes, before he starts to relax. It’s a melody Steve knows, an old song decades old, called ‘Hallelujah’. Steve’s mom used to sing it for him. For now the humming is enough.

\----

The following day, Steve is pretty sure T’Challa’s humming was a dream. After all, the man hasn’t shown the ability to make any sort of sound; Steve hasn’t heard him grunt, laugh or keen. As Steve understood it, the muzzle doesn’t only prevent T’Challa from forming words.

Steve turns around, and stares at T’Challa.

Of course, T’Challa has freaky anti-creeper senses, so he opens his eyes after a few minutes, and then pokes Steve’s side, before turning around and falling back to sleep.

Steve sits up and looks at him, and JARVIS says: “Good morning, Steven. You are required to record your dreams, either through testifying or drawing.”

Steve nods. “Alright.”

\-----

Steve draws.

\----

And draws.

\----

And draws.

\-----

When Steve comes to himself, he’s sitting on the floor of his room. A slow turn of his head shows T’Challa and Bucky signing to each other by the door.

The walls, the floor, the furniture, everything is absolutely littered with inscriptions and drawings from charcoal. Steve looks down at his hands, and they’re charcoal grey, shining like he is made of metal. There are several stumped charcoals all over the room

“Steve?” Bucky calls out.

Steve meets his eyes, feeling as if he is asleep. Like he’s dreaming and he can’t wake up.  

“What is your name?” Bucky asks, and Steve frowns.

“Steve?” Steve answers. “You just called me by my name.”

Bucky sighs with something like relief, and as he steps inside, careful not to smudge the illustrations, Steve notices that it’s midday.

“Come on,” Bucky says, kneeling and lifting Steve up like is he a baby. “We’re gonna go talk to Stark.”

\----

In the hallway to the lab, Steve realizes that T’Challa’s face has drawings of intricate integrated circuits on his face.

“Did I draw you in the face?” Steve hazily asks.

\-        _ Yes, while I was sleeping,  _ T’Challa informs. –  _ I woke up and realized that you … _ T’Challa looks hesitant for once. –  _ That you weren’t yourself,  _ he ends up signing. –  _ Stark made me let it stay on. He has scanned me, however, so I think he just thinks it’s funny now. _

“How long have I been drawing?” Steve asks. His knees are throbbing and his thighs and biceps are aching, his hands cramping.

“7 hours,” Bucky answers, after having checked his watch. “Bruce and Stark wanted to make some tests once you got out of it. They’re sending food up as we speak.”

Steve nods, and closes his eyes.

“Steve, you’re shaking.”

Things are becoming blurring.

\----

When Steve comes to himself, he’s on a table in the lab, sensors stuck all over his body. He has bitten his tongue and his mouth tastes like copper. He can see Tony over him, talking -

He tries to sit up, and reach out –

“There’s a mole,” Zola says.

“Nonsense,” Steve says. “I hired these people myself. 400 years of loyalty, and you’re expecting betrayal now?”

“But Sir,” Zola says. “Information is leaking out. Our base in Germany and Serbia are both in ruins.”

“These damn witches,” Steve grumbles, smacking his rum onto the table. He’s sitting at a table. A metal one. There’s a timer on it. “I thought the cube provided us protection?”

Zola doesn’t answer that. 

“If it continues, it won’t be long before they realize we have an Infinity Gem,” Zola continues. “Or how it keeps us alive.”

The cube.

-

_ Steve’s drowning _

__ __ _ Burning _

__ __ _ Still burning _

**_Dangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdangerdang_ **

His mother is singing to him. Her voice pulls him out of the violent waves, and brings him to shore.

\----

When Steve comes alive, he feels like his body has been ravaged. He immediately throws up, and finds restraints holding him down, so he mostly pukes on his shoulder.

“Mom,” he calls out, choking. “Mom, I wanna go home. Mom? Mom?”

\----

He’s screaming.

\----

Someone is talking about him.

“Well, next time he won’t start drawing right away then,” he hears Tony say argue. “How the fuck could I know that the flow would draw him in so heavily?”

“Oh there won’t be a next time!” he hears Bucky shout. “I don’t care if you throw him into an institution, he’s been talking German for twelve hours now.”

Steve blinks, and feels silky warmness on top of him.

There’s a something sharp and hurting in his arm and hand. He’s clean; there’s no puke on him any longer. He groans, and turns his head. There’s a venous needle in his arm and a cannula in his hand.

“Steve?”

“Pisseeeeeeen,” Steve groans. “Pissseeeeeeeen.”

“Sam,” Bucky snaps. “Sam, you fat pigeon, get off him.”

Sam lifts his wing, and Steve shouts “PISSSEEEEEEN” and Bucky carefully takes out the needles, before rolling out from underneath Sam’s wing, which has apparently been laying on top of him.   

Tony rolls his eyes as Bucky supports Steve to the bathroom. Steve relieves himself, by supporting himself to the walls.

He has never felt so relieved _ in his entire life _ .

He washes his hands, and stumbles out.

“Was ist passiert?” he asks.

And JARVIS says: “He’s asking what happened.”

Steve stares at the ceiling, frowning. “JARVIS, worüber redest du?” he asks.

“Steven asks what I’m talking about,” JARVIS tells them, before explaining Steve: “You are currently conversing in 20 th century German, Steven.”

“ _ Was _ ?!” Steve says.

\----

He speaks German for an hour, and then unexpectedly starts speaking French, and after another hour, he resumes his German. Finally, after Bruce has tried electrocuting his head, Steve falls back to English. He sighs with relief as he feels the R’s right themselves and how t’s become smoother.

Bucky and Sam have been watching him through this process. As Bruce interviews Steve, Steve helps Sam groom his feather coat and Sam clucks happily.

“Alright, I think your brain is ready to go,” Tony says. “You should get some sleep, while we try to make this information make sense.”

Steve nods. “Am I allowed to send letters?” he asks.

Tony waves a hand. “Yeah, just make sure to send it through JARVIS. Oh, and could you stop by Pepper on the way up and check on how she’s doing? She was moody this morning.”

Steve nods, and Bucky takes Sam to the gym. A little relieved to have his familiars off his back, Steve lets JARVIS take him to Pepper’s office. The office’s windows are huge and clear, fresh air running through, making the banshee’s hair float like broken spider web. The wells are a deep burgundy red, and the furniture grey and minimalist. Pepper is sitting at the desk, grinding her teeth as she clicks her pen over and over again, her eyes narrowed into slits. Steve quickly takes care of her tinnitus and headache, finds some vitamin water from her fridge and makes her do relaxing breathing exercises, before he leaves.

He writes a letter to Robert, carefully not letting Robert know why he had to leave or where he is. JARVIS accepts it and sends it straight away.

Restless, and kinda trying not to think about where T’Challa is, Steve goes to the gym.

\-----

A physical therapist is trying to pep-talk Sam into moving his wings but to no avail. Bucky is looking slightly excited on the rowing machine, his arms and thighs flexing and glistening with sweat. Steve sits on the bench by the wall. The therapist’s face lightens up, when Sam finally lifts his wing. They try to make Sam lift it even further, but the harpy refuses. Eventually, Bucky gets off the rowing machine, and walks over to the treadmill, starting to jog in a slow pace. He has put his hair in a bun, and stray locks of hair are on his face.

After he has jogged on the treadmill for a while, Steve suggests: “You might want to train your balance.”

Bucky grins gamely and they walk to the black inflatable together.

Steve steps unto it first, his knees shaky and starts to bounce. Bucky is quick to follow and they jump around for a bit. Steve’s heart beats faster, his lungs quickly start burning and it’s good. It feels like he’s finally coming home to his body.

“So how are you feeling?” Bucky asks, climbing down the inflatable to grab his water bottle. He chugs it down.

“Good,” Steve answers. “Confused, but good. How are the legs coming along?”

“I’m getting there,” Bucky answers, sitting down and massaging his ankles. “The whole gravity thing kinda sucks. I could withstand it when I was in the water all the time, but now there’s just so much weight and pressure on your body all the time, and what? These brand new legs are supposed to help keep me up all time? Walk, and even run?”

Steve stops bouncing, and sits down in a lotus position, so he can look attentively at Bucky while he talks.

“And swimming, geez,” Bucky sighs. “They’re so weak. It feels like they’re getting me nowhere.”

He massages his thighs and groans.

“Did you remember to stretch?” Steve asks.

Bucky widens his eyes and then bangs his forehead against his knees and groans.

Steve cackles. “You’re gonna wake up so sooooreeeee tomorrow!”

“Knock it off,” Bucky says, standing up and starting to stretch. He cries out as his tense muscles resists, and Steve laughs, attracting Sam’s curious stare.

“You’re gonna get it,” Bucky declares, and suddenly runs towards the inflatable. He jumps and curls together in a ball before he hits the inflatable.

And Steve?

Steve springs right off it.

He yells, and lands right into someone’s arms. At first he doesn’t know they are arms, because they’re so hard it might as well have been a tree.

Steve looks up, and a blond giant looks down at him. Not a literal giant but the guy could pass as a hybrid if it wasn’t because of his human proportions. He also has really nice hair. It’s silky and dark blond with corn blond highlights; his eyes are hooded and have the color of the wide blue sky, his cheeks red. He smiles kindly down at Steve.

“And I who thought our guest was a witch!” he exclaims with mirth and does a hearty laugh. “And yet, you’re flying without equipment!”

“Uh,” Steve says, because the guy’s aura is frankly nearly blinding him. “My familiar is a bastard, who thinks he’s funny.”

On the inflatable Bucky winks, and then Sam comes running, flapping his wings at the man in a threatening gesture. The man quickly deposits Steve, and lifts his hands in a surrendering gesture. Steve sights a hammer swinging at Thor’s belt, and then instantly recognizes him.

“You must be Thor,” he realizes out loud. “The wind nymphs told me about you. You’re Visions father, right?”

Thor’s brows rise in surprise, and Sam uses the element of surprise to screech and kick at Thor, and Thor backs away. Then Sam kneels besides Steve, and hisses like the Antichrist he is.

The therapist nears them, their face delighted. “Do that again,” they urge Thor. They’re wearing a blue uniform, has dark green hair and huge golden eyes. They’re a hybrid of some kind, and their eyes suggests there might be some harpy-blood in them.

“Do what?” Steve asks.

“He’s beyond verbal communication,” the therapist explains, which is weird, because Sam talked just fine yesterday. “I’ve tried to make him do what he just did for some time now. You,” they point at Thor, “lift up his witch again.”

Thor looks at Steve for permission, and when Steve nods, Thor swipes out and grabs Steve. Because the demi-god immediately runs away with Steve, Steve doesn’t get to see Sam’s reaction, but he hears Sam screech and immediately take chase. He looks over Thor’s shoulder and sees Sam chase Thor around, his wings flapping like an angry swan and Steve laughs in delight, hoping Bucky is getting this on camera.

In the middle of the run, Sam seems to notice that his wings are working perfectly, and he stops and looks at them in wonder. Steve tells Thor to halt, and as he walks back to his familiar, he sees Sam slowly lower and fold his wings around him. His eyes droop and he falls asleep.

“This is normal,” the therapist tells Steve, when Steve looks at them in confusion. “His brain is recalibrating the wing, and it needs sleep to do that. If we keep this up, he’ll be back to sentient intelligence in no time.”

Steve and Bucky whoop, and Thor laughs.

“Thank you,” Steve says, and reaches out a hand. “I’m Steve by the way.”

“It’s a delight to meet you, finally,” Thor answers with a grin, and Steve has a feeling that the guy isn’t just being polite. “I’ve heard plenty of you through my dearest friend, Tony!”

“Oh.”

“Worry nothing of it,” Thor says, and puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder, and looks at Bucky.

“This is Bucky,” Steve introduces. “He’s normally a merman.”

“Never have I encountered your kind!” Thor bursts out, grinning and shaking Bucky’s hand.

“Of course you haven’t,” Bucky says with a crooked smile. “As far as I’ve heard, you tend to radiate electricity especially in water.”

“Yes, that is true,” Thor admits, his smile turning a little sheepish. “My body is attracted by electricity and that has prevented me from visiting your people’s kingdoms. Hopefully, one day the conditions will be changed and I will be welcomed.” He looks hopeful. “My friends, would you like to share a drink of mead with me? You must tell me more about the kingdom you originate from.” The last comment is directed at Bucky.

Steve yawns, and waves his hand. “You two go ahead, I think I’m done for the evening. If you could help me get Sam into the elevator, I’ll take care of the rest.”

Bucky and Thor move Sam into the elevator, and they insist travelling all the way up with them. While Steve forces Sam to drink a bottle of water, Bucky sets out a huge mattress. They lift Sam unto it, and Steve waves Bucky away. He sets out more water on the bed table, and brushes Sam’s teeth. They’re in T’Challa’s guestroom, and Steve worms his way into Sam’s side, and is about to fall asleep, when JARVIS politely coughs: “Steven, I would like to inform you that Ms. Hand can be arriving at any moment, and it is ill advised for her to see you in such an intimate position with your familiar.”

Steve groans.

“I’ll be sure to alert you if your familiar needs your assistance,” JARVIS insures, and Steve nods groggily, before moving into his room. The sheets smell like lemons, and Steve falls asleep immediately.

\----

Steve wakes up when he feels someone move in beside him. He nudges the person, until the person throws a warm arm around Steve’s back. Burying his face into the neck of the person, he feels warm and settled.

“You hummed for me,” he whispers. “Where have you been all day?”

T’Challa strokes his hand through Steve’s hair, and Steve opens his eyes to look at him.

He feels the hot blow of T’Challa’s breath against the crown of his hair. Steve reaches up, and gently touches the muzzle.

“When am I going to hear you sing again, T’Challa?” he whispers.

\-        _ S-L-E-E-P,  _ T’Challa signs on Steve’s back, and Steve does what he is told.

\----

The next day the Tower is empty for some reason, and Steve and his familiar lazily spend the day in the huge swimming section of the gym. Bucky swims around in the pool, happy to use his tail for a short while, and Sam rinses his feathers in the Jacuzzi. T’Challa, who wasn’t in bed when Steve woke up, shows up at noon, and tells Steve, that the information Steve provided the day before, outed at least four HYDRA bases, and the team has split up, and gone to each of them with SHIELD reinforcements to take them down. Because of that and because Ms. Hand announced she was coming 4 am, Steve is prohibited from drawing.

When Ms. Hand comes, she’s beaming as she sees them. Sam and Bucky are in the corner of the room, Sam watching cartoons and Bucky drinking coffee besides him.

“What a nice little family!” she exclaims, looking gleeful. “I believe this is your first encounter with your fiancé’s familiars?” she asks T’Challa, and he nods.

\-        _ They’re very nice,  _ he signs and Steve translates. –  _ They’ve welcomed me wholeheartedly. _

Bucky hoots in acknowledgement and Sam mirrors the sound.

After having done pleasant small talk with Sam and Bucky (Bucky grunting instead of answering, Sam not talking to her at all), she takes T’Challa and him aside, and measures their happiness, and Steve’s comfort and safety levels, before she decides that Steve is fit to stay at the Tower.

Then she goes to interview Bucky and Sam. She still doesn’t get much out of Sam, but Bucky smoothly plays along and says all the things she wants to hear.

After she has left, they all go down to the gym. T’Challa locks himself into a soundproof combat room and Sam’s therapist comes to drag Sam along, telling Steve they will call if there’s something they need him for. While Bucky trains his legs, Steve goes to check on Pepper.

He takes the elevator up, and finds her office empty. JARVIS has been disabled, so Steve goes to Tony and Pepper’s floor, becoming increasingly worried. The faucet is on in the bathroom, and Steve calls out for JARVIS, only to find out that JARVIS has been disabled on this floor as well. Steve’s stomach is starting to hurt, and his heart beats faster. The door to the bathroom is open, and Steve nears it with shaky knees.

Pepper is kneeling in front of the Jacuzzi. Her hands are clutching bloody pieces of fabric, and she’s desperately trying to rinse them clean. They’re stiff with rusty-smelling dark-brown blood. His eyes widen as he realizes what’s going on, and he steps back. She hears him, and turns around.

Her face is morphed into a grotesque expression of horror. The lines are deep and purple in her skin; her eyes are narrowed in anguish and pain. Her cheeks are hollowed, and there are dark rings around her eyes. She opens her mouth, and the horror turns into desperate sadness.

Pepper screams.

Steve falls on his ass with the force of it and after a full minute where his mind blacks out, her scream turns into cries and sobs. Shaking himself, he quickly gets up, running to the elevator and smashing the down-button. She keeps weeping in the bathroom and he can hear her desperately trying to wash the clothes, get the blood off. Steve knows it won’t get off.

He tries to think, tries to figure out whom the clothes are owned by. Frantically, he pushes the buttons in the elevator. He needs to go to the gym. Bucky and Sam are there, he needs to know they’re safe.

The elevator doors don’t open in the gym though; they open in an office floor, which has been going through renovation it seems. The walls still smell like paint, and the floors are dusted with broken plaster. It’s cold; the heating isn’t working here. Steve turns back to the elevator, only to realize that it has been shut down. His stomach is clenching harder; he must get to the gym, and so he goes to find the fire escape stairs. The signs aren’t up yet, only huge boxes with desks and computers. The sunrays float in, but they feel empty since the glass has UV-protection. He’s starting to feel like he can’t breathe, when he hears a door creak open behind him, breaking the heavy silence.

“Hello?” he calls out.

He doesn’t move, waiting for the person to reply. When he doesn’t hear anything else, no response, no steps, not even a breath, Steve starts to back away. He throws on a veil, hoping that the person isn’t trained to see past them.

\-        _ Steve, we’re being attacked,  _ he suddenly hears Bucky shout. –  _ Get out of the Tower, they’re coming for you! _

Steve immediately starts running through the halls, but all the doors to the offices are closed, and when he finds the emergency stairs, the doors have been blocked from the outside. He immediately stops pulling at the handle, realizing that the sound can give him away. He backs away, and hides behind a huge pile of floor tiles.

Heavy, booted footsteps are walking towards him. Steve holds his breath, and doesn’t dare to peep. He looks at the windows, desperately looking for something that can get him away, but the windows are bulletproof. He puts his hand on his mouth, trying to desperately silence his gasping breaths. The booted footsteps are behind the pile, and Steve doesn’t dare turn. The person is obviously sensing Steve’s presence, or perhaps realizing that this is the only place Steve could be. It was the person’s plan to deliberately corner him, Steve realizes, and just as he is about to call Bucky or Sam, a hand shoots down and grabs him around the neck. He yells as he thrown up on the floor tiles and pushed down on the floor again, slamming the back of his head.

He stares up.

The leader of HYDRA is staring down at him. His eyes are black and full of fire, his face gaunt with lines of aging. He doesn’t say anything to Steve; only stares at him with visible disgust and hatred. He kicks Steve in the jaw, making Steve bite down on his tongue, and Steve cries out in pain as he rolls. A second kick hits him in the ribs, but it’s the kick to the head which makes the world spin, and makes Steve’s attempts at fleeing into clumsy crawling.

“I hate you,” Steve coughs, holding his ribs as his body tries to breathe. “Curse be on you, and may your flesh born in the blood you have shed. Curse be on your bloodline, must everyone know what a monster looks like!”

The man doesn’t even look like he’s listening. He kneels over Steve, and cups his gloved hands around Steve’s neck. Steve grapples at them, trying to force them away as they clench down. He immediately can’t breathe, and his face and head start throbbing with the diminished flow of blood and oxygen, his lips turning blue as the oxygen in his veins cease to come in. The leader’s eyes meet Steve’s, his lips a thin line. Steve tries to gasp, but it only makes his rib muscles cramp painfully. The leader straddles Steve’s flailing legs, and lets a hand go, which he puts over Steve’s eyes. Steve is filled with horror as the world goes black. His heart is pounding so hard it’s starting to hurt, his lungs are squeezing. The feeling of his body is starting to fade, the sound of his heart becoming louder and louder, until Steve can’t even hear the sound of the man’s measured breaths. The pain feels like a giant pressure on his chest and the muscles in his ribcage are aching as they heave fruitlessly.

He can taste blood in his mouth as he bites his lip. The blood vessels in his neck burst and bleed as bruises are forming. His neck is hurting, aching, and Steve is half-convinced that it will break if the leader uses both of his hands again. His veins are throbbing, like the blood is congealing, becoming too stiff and sharp to flow through their flexible passageways.

The numbness starts in his toes first. Then his arms. His body becomes numb and white suns are exploding in his vision. His eardrums vibrate, and they hurt like he’s going deeply underwater. Slowly his body crumbles like the walls are trying to crush his bones into powder, like they want to color Steve’s blood all over them. His ears are ringing.

Things slowly start to become unimportant. He’s there, and he knows he should still be fighting, but the world just seems so far away. He’s confused and angry, but he doesn’t know why. The feeling of his body is drifting further and further away.

Then he feels nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the last paragraph, Steve is strangulated to death by Red Skull. If you would rather not read about that, stop reading from "- Steve, we’re being attacked, he suddenly hears Bucky shout. – Get out of the Tower, they’re coming for you!". After that there will be a drawn out death scene.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks to my beta Imoshen88 for betaing these past two chapters!

When JARVIS messages Natasha that the Tower is being invaded and he has been disabled and so doesn’t know what’s going on, she leaves the airplane cabin and goes to open a portal in the back. Her hands are shaking as she draws Steve’s symbol on the wall with her blood. The HYDRA base was theirs hours ago, but she stayed, wanting to personally survey the data extraction and secure the parameters before leaving it in SHIELD’s hand. Since having become an Avenger, she has learned that SHIELD didn’t always tell them everything, and so she, as the only competent Avenger, always made sure to gather all the information, before SHIELD swooped in and dusted it underneath the carpet.

She jumps through the portal, and ends up in the gym. T’Challa, Sam and Bucky are surrounded by HYDRA-agents, and it looks like they’ve been going at it for a while. Bucky is equipped with a gun, T’Challa with a club and Sam is flying in circles on top of all of them, picking ants like fish in the water, easily avoiding the bullets coming his way. Still, it’s clear that the three aren’t going to win the battle. Bucky’s legs are still weak, Sam isn’t as coherent as he usually would be, and T’Challa’s club can only do so much.

She and Clint quickly come to their aid, and it isn’t long before Thor is crashing through the windows, taking over the fight. Knowing that Thor has the situation in control, she quickly gets to the emergency stairs. T’Challa is behind her, and so is Steve’s familiars.

“Ms. Romanoff,” JARVIS voice calls out in her earplug, his voice static and flickering. His voice sounds deeply regretful. “Sir has joined Ms. Potts. I’m afraid, he caught her washing clothes and screaming.”

“Where’s Steve?” she harshly asks. She knows what the A.I. is indicating, but the forewarnings of banshee’s have been prevented before.

“On the 52th floor.”

They run up the stairs, and when they reach the 52th floor, the doors have been blocked with still packaged renovation boxes filled with stones. She pushes them away singlehandedly, just enough to open the door, and they squeeze their way inside.

There are no signs of struggle, besides the flying dust, the footprints on the dirty floor. They don’t have to search for him; he’s a few meters away from emergency escape. A lump forms in Natasha’s throat, because Steve had been trying to escape.

He’s lying on his back, his arms splayed out, his fingers frozen in a death grip. Light is flowing through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing his frail figure. He’s so still. Natasha can almost fool herself into thinking he’s sleeping. His legs are gathered. Someone has been straddling him.

As she gets closer, she sees that his eyes are still open. They’re bloodshot, and the blue of them look like cool pools. He didn’t cry. That’s her Steve. Not breaking to the last moment. When kneels in front of him. Large hand-shaped bruises are on his neck. He was strangled.

The emptiness inside her turns into immediate pain.

The murderer could’ve shot him, could’ve ended it quickly. But they wanted to see him struggle, wanted to take their time. Wanted to see him in pain. Wanted to see the life drain out of him.

They wanted to be certain.

Steve has bit his lip. The lack of blood pressure has prevented the blood from dripping down his jaw. The blood is congealed. If she hadn’t stayed at the HYDRA site; if she just -

She hears Sam scream behind her. Bucky kneels besides her. His hand is shaking as it lays itself on top of Steve’s forehead. Steve still isn’t moving.

His eyes are still looking at the ceiling.

T’Challa is heading towards the body, signing, but no one is looking at him. She runs over the facts. The Tower was supposed to be safe; the leader of HYDRA wasn’t supposed to know Steve was in his head. How could this have happened so fast? Right underneath their noses?

Now T’Challa is trying to nudge Bucky away, and Bucky shouts, pushing at T’Challa. T’Challa lets himself be pushed away, and then looks at Natasha in desperation, signing, but she doesn’t understand. She feels dizzy.  

“I’m afraid my systems were disabled,” JARVIS quietly says, his voice coming from the ceiling. “My readings shows that the corpse is 4-6 hours old.”

T’Challa grabs and shakes Natasha’s shoulders.

“What?” she asks, and she sounds dazed. She’s disassociating. That’s bad.

\-        _ I need him in the Quinjet,  _ T’Challa signs. –  _ Quickly, I only have two hours to work with. _

She blinks, her heart coming alive in her chest. “Can you revive him?”

\-        _ Maybe,  _ he signs. –  _ Make his familiars leave, so we can get him away from here. _

Sam is resting by Steve’s body, his wings splayed on top of Steve’s body, as if it’s shielding him from rain. Bucky is murmuring, groaning.

“Get off him,” she calls out. “T’Challa needs him in the jet, we’re gonna try and revive him. Bucky, Sam! Now!”

She purposefully makes their name sound like whip lashes, and Sam rises first, visibly disoriented. Bucky stares at T’Challa with a clenched jaw for a moment, before sharply nodding and delicately lifting up the body, and they take the elevator to the roof, where JARVIS has already prepped the Quinjet for them.

\----

The ride is unbearably long. T’Challa is frantically texting on his phone, and 15 minutes away from the Wakandan border, T’Challa instructs Bucky to peel off Steve’s shirt and T-shirt. The black mark of the broken bond is like a cross on Steve’s chest. It’s withering too, turning into an ashy grey as the magic disappears.

T’Challa reaches Natasha his phone, and Natasha reads out loud: “There might be some complications, seeing as the body has been engaged with hollow magic in the past. Hollow magic makes the cells die faster and the body decomposes faster. Which means that the brain can be heavily damaged even if resurrection is proved successful.”

“So he could get brain damage?” Bucky asks. “It doesn’t matter. He will get through it. We will… we will figure something out.”

“You’ve got it all wrong.” The voice is scratchy, and it takes all of them by surprise.

It’s Sam and he’s staring at them in confusion. He states: “Steve has never and will never use hollow magic.”

“Sam,” Bucky says, reluctant to break the new.

“No, don’t ‘Sam’ me with that sad voice,” Sam says. “I know he wouldn’t use it.”

“Your memories are hazy. On the bridge –“ Natasha starts tiredly, but Sam interrupts: “That wasn’t hollow magic. Who says it’s hollow magic?”

Natasha frowns, and then really starts thinking. “What makes you say that?” she asks instead.

“I remember the Bridge,” Sam says. “My memories aren’t ‘hazy’. I’ve been having reliving that time constantly for two months. He grabbed me, remember?”

Natasha nods slowly, and now Bucky is looking at Sam as well.

“The leader of HYDRA shot me down, and Steve grabbed me with that power, before I drowned,” Sam continues. “I know it’s not hollow magic. I know what hollow magic feels like; I’ve been attacked with it several times, and that felt nothing like it.”

\-        _ The levels of power he used compared to his species,  _ T’Challa signs, but he looks thoughtful. –  _ It can’t be anything else but that. _

Sam shakes his head. “You’re wrong. That wasn’t hollow magic. It touched me. I know.” He takes a deep breath. “New forms of magic are revealing themselves all the time. You’re wrong.”

\-        _ What did it feel like?  _ T’Challa asks.

Sam looks at Steve. He doesn’t blink when he turns to look at T’Challa. “It felt like being loved.”

Natasha lands the jet in a platform at a huge golden palace and big group of Wakandans are waiting there. They whisk Steve’s body away, and a few of them lead Natasha, Bucky and Sam to a guest suite where they all shower and change clothes. They await instruction for ten minutes. A tall bold woman comes and leads them to some temples behind the palace. It’s night in Wakanda, and the summer heat is humid. The woman leaves them by a temple’s gate, saying she’s not allowed to be there, but they can go inside. 

Inside the temple, there are dozens of priests- and priestesses walking around. Some of them are sleeping on the earthen floor, and others are playing board games. They’re wearing identical white and black gowns, and they all have the same muzzle as T’Challa on their faces. It makes the place eerily silent, and the only sounds, which are heard is the sound of their footsteps. Natasha follows the trail of T’Challa’s scent, and at last the temple spits them out in a big garden, where a big black marble temple is standing. 

The temple is humble, and there are a few statues at the entrance. Two incredibly statues of Bastet are guarding the gates and their eyes follow the group as they walk inside the temple. It smells like limestone and calcium water. The interior of the temple looks more like caves, and the tunnels are random in direction and size. There are main tunnels though, marked by a granite bridges and concave walls. There are images and symbols on the walls, radiating protection and calmness, and they make Natasha feel calmer and more present. The serenity is an illusion, but it helps her keep her cool. It seems like it’s helping Sam and Bucky as well.

They pass several pools as they move underground. Some of them are illuminated; others are hidden in the dark.

Finally they reach a room with a huge ceiling. In the top she can see the night sky.

Most of the bottom of the room is a pool full of clear water.  

T’Challa is in the pool on his knees, and Natasha immediately notes that the muzzle has transfigured into a heavy necklace. Steve’s body is in T’Challa’s lap, and T’Challa sways, like he’s lulled by something they can’t hear. T’Challa dips Steve’s head into the water, and then he starts to sing.

\----

Somewhere the leader of HYDRA is screaming as his skin burns and peels off, and only scarlet muscles and bone are left on his face. The curse is thick in his blood, squeezing in his airlines. His body cripples as the serum is weakened, making skin wrinkle, the cartilage of his nose rot and fall off. He hears the anger and wrath of the witch’s ancestors screaming in his head, sending waves of chaotic magic through his body.


	13. Chapter 13

It’s not accurate to say, that the first thing he feels is his heartbeat. Rather, the heartbeat comes before him. It's something he wakes up to. He listens to it like a baby in crib listens to a howling storm outside in the middle of sleep; barely aware of it in his unconsciousness. Gradually, like the human s conquered the world, he conquers feeling in his body. It’s numb, but there. His eyes are closed, and his limbs refuse to move. Then he feels the cold. Not downright like ice, but as if the heat of his core is gone. As if he’s an empty shell.

Next comes his hearing. He hears the sound of water dripping and the echo of it. Is he underground? It does feel wet.

Next comes taste. His mouth tastes like blood.

He tries to sit up, and only then notices the water  surrounding his body. He can’t breathe. He’s underwater, and he can’t breathe and yet he doesn’t need air. It’s as if his skin is breathing for him.

Steve opens his eyes, but he can’t see anything. Someone is taking his hand, and he quivers as it’s directed through the surface. The air is humid, before the hand presses his hand towards something hard. Blinking, he tries to identify what it is he’s feeling. The surface he’s touching isn’t warm, but feels wrinkled and smooth. Like creased silk. Steve realizes that he is touching T’Challa’s muzzle. 

Softly he is lifted up from the water, and the sound of humming  echoed off the  huge cave walls reaches his ears. Arms pick him up, and he is pressed against a hot body. The person is walking through the water, dragging their feet.

“T’Challa?” he tries to say, but it comes out as a low hoarse whisper. “Where are we?”

“Safe,” an accented, deep voice answers back, and Steve immediately kicks out his feet in alarm. The person loses their grip on him, and he lands on his back. Water rushes into his nose and mouth and he fights up  onto his knees,  a feeling of immediate danger flashing through his body as his heart starts pumping adrenaline, giving Steve the strength to crawl away.

“Steven,” the person calls out, but he doesn’t try to touch Steve. “Steven, it’s okay. It’s T’Challa.”

Steve whips his head again, trying to  fix his blind eyes  on where the person must be. Come to think of it, the accent does sound appropriate. Besides T’Challa, Steve has only talked to one Wakandan, who was a frequent customer in the firm, Steve used to work at. 

“T’Challa can’t talk,” he hisses.

“Won’t talk,” corrects the voice and it’s closer as if he’s kneeling in front of Steve. “How much do you remember?”

Steve glares at the person.

“Your eyesight should’ve been back by now,” the person tries. “We need to finish the ceremony. Natasha, Sam and Bucky are waiting for you.”

Steve’s shoulders drop. He doesn’t have a choice does he? “Alright. Let me touch you.”

The person willingly moves closer, and Steve immediately grapples at the place where the muzzle used to be, the muzzle he felt a moment ago. Instead, he feels full lips, a carved jawline.  Just as Steve is about to push the person away, wet hands take hold of Steve’s hands and guide them down to what feels like the muzzle. It’s hard and finely creased, and it’s shaped differently because of its placement, but Steve can recognize the muzzle anywhere.  

“You’re talking,” Steve sighs as he slumps with relief. “Why are you talking?”

“It’s a long story,” T’Challa answers, and Steve relishes in the sound. His voice is dark and sweet like syrup. It’s full and melodious. 

“You have a beautiful voice,” Steve lets him know, as T’Challa once again scoops Steve up and starts walking. Steve feels different in ways he can’t even start to comprehend, so he focuses on T’Challa: “Does this mean you can kiss your girlfriend now?” he asks.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” T’Challa informs.

“Well, if you keep your muzzle away from your mouth, I’m sure they’ll be standing in lines,” Steve very intently informs him.

“It’s not a muzzle,” T’Challa says. “It’s a,” T’Challa says something with a lot of clicking involved in his mother language, “and it’s a part of our country’s religion. Necromancers operate through their voice, and the muzzle is supposed to bestow discipline, serenity and humility, until we’ve finished our final ceremony.”

“Oh.” Steve frowns. “So you must’ve taken it off, because you’re either finished with your training or because you’ve brought a dead person back to life?” Steve guesses.

“Yes.” T’Challa says, sounding neutral.

And Steve’s realizes.

“Was I dead?” he asks with a tiny voice.

“Yes,” T’Challa softly answers. “For 6 hours.”

“Oh moon goddess.” Steve feels sick, and T’Challa walks faster.

“Please don’t throw up in the ancient holy water,” he begs, and Steve holds his mouth.

“Who?” he asks, when the feeling has subsided.

“The leader of HYDRA,” T’Challa supplies. “He waited until the team was split and all over the world, before he sneaked in. He disabled JARVIS, distracted the residents.”

Steve doesn’t answer.

“So I’m a ghost huh,” Steve mumbles. “What do you want to know?”

“What?”

“It’s okay,” Steve hurries to say. “I’m actually looking forward to seeing my family. But I don’t really remember a lot, so I don’t think my information will be very valuable.”

T’Challa sighs. “You’re…”

His voice dies as his feet land on solid ground. Sam screeches and Steve shakes with it. Huge clawed hands gingerly take hold of him, and hold him to a feathered chest.

“I don’t feel dead,” Steve wonders.

“What?” Bucky asks. “You’re not dead.”

“Yes I am,” Steve insists. “I’ve been dead for 6 hours. I can still do my will, right?”

“Steve,” Natasha’s voice joins in. “You’re not dead.”

“My dead body says otherwise,” Steve insists. “I feel cold.”

“He literally breathed life into your dead body before it started the decomposing process,” Natasha patiently explains.

“Oh.” Steve blinks. “I’m alive.”

“Sound more enthusiastic,” Bucky complains, but it sounds like he’s grinning.

“I just made peace with being dead,” Steve defends himself. “Now I have to give that up. This is exhausting.”

“Your face is exhausting,” Bucky lets Steve know.

“Your mouth is exhausting.”

“Your – ”

“Break it up,” Natasha interrupts. “T’Challa is signing, and he says that we’re in trouble.”

\----

And oh boy, they are. Some people in flashy uniforms come and drag T’Challa away, shouting at him all the way.  As light and shapes slowly start to take form in Steve’s vision, Bucky, Natasha and Sam are thrown on a plane out of Wakanda, because apparently that’s where they are and at the same time, not allowed to be. Steve is allowed to shower, before he  is  escorted to medical. Medical is located in a huge building smelling like raspberries and oranges, and feels like humid heat fighting AC. Steve can hear foreign birds singing, sounding like glass bells. He gets  goosebumps when he hears the screams of apes and the rustling of them climbing the tree crowns.

It’s a tall woman who escorts him, her arm in his, while his vision is trying to come back. Steve thinks she’s bold, the silhouette of her head too round and small to be anything else, and he can hear the clang of her jewelry. She disposes  of  him in a huge bedroom. The door is locked behind him, and he decides to sit on the floor, until the lights and shapes he can see get sharper and clearer.

The bed is a huge hammock, covered with silky linen and pillows. Beige ropes hold it up, and the floor is made of clay tiles. The furniture is pompous. It’s all made of wood, carved with swirly arabesques. The sheets have colors, but he’s not sure what the colors are. The casement windows are huge, the curtains white, and there are no pictures on the wall.  

Steve rises and stumbles into what must be the bathroom. There’s a small sitting tub in the niche of the bay windows. There’s a sea of lights down there, foreign buildings and elegant and simple architecture. Steve takes his damp clothes off, and locates faucet. He sinks into the warm water when the tub has been filled, and leans his head against the curved edge of the tub, looking out of the windows until the view gains details.  

Steve was always told that Wakanda dealt with the Wrath of Mother Earth the best, but Steve is surprised to see that the landscape he can see is in deeply affected. There are deep fissures in the ground, random spots are barren of growth, and Steve even thinks he can see swamps, having drowned trees and fields that should have been forests, in some places. But unlike the States, the Wakandans haven’t tried to fix it, haven’t tried concealing it.

White arch bridges stretch over the deep fissures, there are high fences around the swamps, and playgrounds and workout parks are on the barrens spots. They’ve embraced rather than recovered from her strikes, and that’s what tells Steve that the Wakandans may have a total ly different outlook on disaster, on tragedy. Unlike the Western world, Wakanda hasn’t forgotten. They’ve remembered. They’ve gone out of their way to make sure everybody remembers, even the following generations.   

\----

Someone is knocking on the bathroom door, and Steve rises with a start.

“A second!” he calls out, belatedly realizing that he fell asleep in the tub. He gets up and walks to the door, opening it.  

There’s a woman there, tall and slender, aged in all the healthy ways. Her brows shoot up as she sees him.

T’Challa is the background, furiously signing: -  _ PUT ON CLOTHES FOR THE LOVE OF YOUR GODDESS. _

“Oh,” Steve says. “Uh.”

In his paralyzed state he rudely closes the door in her face, and then just stands there in shock for a bit.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the woman cheerily calls out, her accent different from T’Challa’s.

It makes Steve walk towards the cupboards where he finds a bathrobe, and as he wraps himself up, he notices something odd on his chest. He goes to stand in front of the mirror.

The black cross of his broken bond is ashy and fading instead of its usual vibrant black. People who don’t see auras never really notice it, and Steve has gotten so used to it, that he barely notices it anymore. Now he gapes, before turning to slowly open the door.

T’Challa and an elderly couple are sitting on the hammock. T’Challa’s muzzle is back in place, but he looks more nervous than Steve has ever seen him. His aura is vibrating with anxiety, and Steve feels himself straighten as he looks at the couple.

They’re in their mid-forties, and the way they sit together on the seat shows how very much in love they still are. The man’s aura is powerful and like T’Challa’s, it contains a kaleidoscope of darkness and light, while the woman’s aura is smaller yet more energetic.

Steve’s hair is dripping onto his shoulders, and he suddenly feels very small as the couple look at him with skeptic al eyes. He waits until they’re done watching him, then waits for the m to speak.

“You can sit down if you want,” the woman suggests. Steve senses the order though, so he does sit on a padded chair near a small desk.

She continues: “My name is Rara. This is my husband, Chucky.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Something fishy is going on. Her aura shifted when she introduced herself. “My name is Steve. Thank you for providing me shelter and medical care.”

“It’s no trouble,” Rara smiles, but the smile is detached. “I’m going to tell you like it is, Steven. T’Challa did an unauthorized resurrection of your body, and we’re trying to figure out what to do with you.”

Steve blinks. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

Her smile becomes strained.

It’s silent again, and T’Challa are glaring at the couple.

Steve looks at the couple and then at T’Challa.

The silence continues. Steve is starting to wonder what he’s even doing here. The man must be T’Challa’s father, Steve realizes after some thinking. They look a lot like each other, and their auras have similarities in terms of magical powers. Rara’s accent and aura are different from her companions, but T’Challa did tell Steve that he had a stepmother, so that would make sense. But they’re here to talk about the consequences of T’Challa’s actions, and Steve doesn’t think it’s likely that the parents of the perpetrator get to decide what to do about it, unless there’s a totally different way of handling these affairs in Wakanda? Or perhaps, T’Challa’s parents are in a legal position to survey and have a say in this case. Chucky’s aura indicates that he and T’Challa both have the same magical powers, so perhaps T’Challa’s father is also his mentor?

Steve breaks the silence first. “I’m not sure I understand. T’Challa did something unauthorized, and I was dead for most of the process, so I’m not really an active accomplice. And you’re his parents, so what authority do you have to be the judge in this case? Unless,” Steve looks at Chucky, “you’re also his master?”

Chucky lifts an eyebrow, and Rara’s face remains expressionless.

Steve tilts his head, and goes through the pieces of knowledge he has about Wakanda. His knowledge about Wakanda is limited, ranging from his grandmother’s teachings to non-fiction books and news articles. A bell starts to ring in his head. Chucky and Rara sound awfully a lot like T’Chaka and Ramonda. And even though Steve hasn’t seen their faces in newspapers before, he has heard the names mentioned plenty of times.

Steve looks at T’Challa and then at his parents, as the random pieces start to make sense in an absurd whole.

“T’Challa,” Steve says, staring at the person in question. “Are you the prince of Wakanda?”

It’d explain why his parents have the authority to decide what to do with him. Because they are in fact in that position, where they have to deal with their son’s breach of law, seeing as the father is both the High Priest of the Wakandan necromancy discipline, and also the head chief of the Wakandan tribes .

When T’Challa’s brows start to rise and he nods once, Steve whispers: “Oh god,” and slumps, massaging his temples. He feels surprised and little betrayed.

Wakanda have been wrestling with the rest of the world for decades, and the States is one of the world’s super nations. What better way to survey the state than send such a massive figure as a consultant in the States’ defensive unit?

T’Challa doesn’t answer, and his eyes start crinkling, as if he thinks this is funny. Steve glares at him, and then stares at head chief and his wife.  

“So what are you going to do with me?” he asks in a low voice. Are they going to fine him for being resurrected without authorization? Or perhaps… repeal it? Can you do that? But then again, Steve didn’t know that necromancers could even resurrect a dead body, he thought they could only resurrect spirits.

He wonders if they know that T’Challa is his fiancé in the States. He wonders if T’Challa’s parents have an opinion about that. And if that opinion has something to do with why they’re here.

_ Why isn’t anybody saying anything? _

“I think,” T’Chaka speaks up for the first time, “that right now we are less interested in knowing about the circumstances surrounding my son’s decision, and more about how it was even able to occur. Users of hollow magic haven’t ever successfully been revived. We’ve tried many times, and I don’t overestimate my son enough to think it’s purely because of his ability.”

Steve meets his eyes and then looks at his hands. “I’m sorry, Sir,” Steve says. “Concerning my use of hollow magic, I don’t have a clear idea about it. It just happened and it hasn’t since.”

T’Chaka leans back. “I am told, your familiar raised an interesting question I’m surprised my foolish son hasn’t asked himself before:  whether what you used even was hollow magic . ”

“I don’t recall that,” Steve frowns.

“You were dead at the time,” T’Chaka humorously informs, and the subject of death doesn’t seem to  faze him. Perhaps, in a country like this, they view death in a totally different way. “However, assuming that the forces you manipulated was hollow magic, and still not coming up with any answers of how that could’ve happened, should’ve forced one to start from the bottom.”

T’Challa rolls his eyes, and it’s such a childish thing to do that Steve is almost taken aback.

“I don’t understand what it is you want with me,” Steve says, perhaps a bit impatiently. “Even if I wasn’t using hollow magic, I have no information to share or offer. I don’t know anything. T’Challa probably knows more than I do.”

T’Chaka nods. “I’ve gotten a hold of your family records. Do you mind?”

Lifting a brow, Steve meets his eyes. “I’m not answering that, if you’ve already done it.”

The head chief shrugs. “I’ve tracked your family history all the way back to Ireland. Did you know that your ancestors were knights from 12th hundred all the way to the 17th??”

Steve gestures at his, mildly said, delicate body. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“What is more interesting,” T’Chaka continues as if Steve hadn’t spoken, “is that your family records date all the way back to sixth century BCE, which is quite extraordinary considering that Europe didn’t record history for a long time.” T’Chaka continues to chuckle. “Now, I’m going to quickly put together the simple puzzle which my son seemed so completely incapable of putting together.”

“Is that really necessary to keep mentioning,” Steve comments, and T’Challa waves his hand.  

But now T’Chaka is pursing his lips, playing hard to get.

“You don’t have to continue,” Steve says. “They were messengers of love or something before they were knights, even before they were healers. Mutual love isn’t expendable, and therefore it’s a bottomless resource of power.”

T’Chaka tries so hard not to look like he badly he wants to continue, which makes Ramonda sigh, and continue: “Circa 432 BCE, a plague broke out among the Wakandan people, and it was a sickness we couldn’t cure. Few of our people had time to get out, before they were infected and they travelled long and far to find healers capable of helping us cure the plague, but it wasn’t within any African healers’ capability. In Russia they split; some went Far East, others searched Europe and the last of them went to the Native Americans. Through their travels, they gathered as much knowledge as they could. The ones who went to Europe then met a people in Ireland, known in our language as ‘the blessed’ _.  _ They were cryptic and mysterious, but agreed to go back with the travellers, and were rather rude guests, quite frankly. They didn’t get infected, despite the exposure, and they helped us take care of the weakest of our sick, which gave us hope. Still, they did absolutely nothing about the plague and we were starting to think they were taking advantage of our sickness to take our riches when we eventually died.”

T’Chaka apparently can’t keep himself from telling the end of the story. “Still, we showed them hospitality, and bestowed them  with  whatever they wanted when they asked – which they admittedly never did. After 12 months, they settled down on the roofs of our palaces. Then, one full moon, lights in green, orange , and  gold showered our city. Today we think the witnesses were seeing aurora for the first time. At dawn, the blessed had left our country, and the plague had disappeared.”

After the story, they settle in thoughtful silence for a minute.

“What defines hollow magic is the things we fill it with,” Steve slowly starts. “It’s power, a vehicle in need of fuel, and the person will likely fill it with the negative things. Hollow magic is a neutral form of magic.”

Steve rubs his nose. “So you believe that I’m a descendant of these people, you encountered, and that’s why I could withstand the resurrection?” he asks.


	14. Towards the sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “T’Challa,” Steve whispers.  
> T’Challa throws a look at him.  
> “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks! Do to underwhelming feedback, I've decided to drop this project. idk if anybody is even reading anymore, but I'll be deleting this project in a month's time. Thank u for reading so far, and the comments that I've been given!

\-    _ It makes sense,  _ T’Challa signs. –  _ I’ve gotten  _ _ ahold _ _ of the L-O-U-I-S-A-N-A police report. All the mercenaries found at the scene were found dead; their necks were broken. Every bone in their body was shattered. When I looked for your mother’s manner of transportation, I found two tickets. When I checked the airports’ surveillance footage, the guest she brought was you. _

“But that’s nuts,” Steve says. “My mom was there for three days, before she was murdered. Forgetting a couple of hours is fine, but how can I have lost that much time?”

\-    _ I sadly haven’t had a chance to talk with your familiar,  _ T’Challa signs and glares at his father.  _ \- Because someone was too busy deporting people. _

T’Chaka raises his hands in a surrendering gesture and chuckles.

“But there are factors which don’t make sense,” Steve says. “First off, if what my Nana said was true, and we operate through channels of love, then why me and not my mom? My grandmother? I have a broken bond, which has hindered me in loving. Besides that, I, as a healer , am unable to directly kill people with my  healing powers. As healers, we make an oath to never hurt people with our magic. I can heal a broken bone, as easy as I can break it.  But if I ever were to abuse this power, the moon goddess would strip me  of my abilities. If I really used my healer abilities and not hollow magic to kill those mercenaries,” and he refuses to let his voice shake when he says this, because if he killed his mother’s killers, he’s  _ glad _ , “I wouldn’t have any powers anymore.”

“Define these ‘healer abilities’,” Ramonda asks.

Steve makes a face, because he has never gotten  a hold on the strict definition. “Basically, my magic makes me able to emit small agents, I am in control of. These agents have an extreme form of sensory perception, and they send me back that data. When I heal, I project energy and intention into them. They invade a body like cells and heal.”

“So basically you’re departing small parts of your power and magic, and pushing them out of your body and into another’s body?” she curtly summarizes.

“Yes.”

“Could you in some ways say that you’re astral projecting?”

“Kind of?”

“Well, if the blessed astral project parts of themselves on the whole city, and these agents created these northern lights showering the city…”

“But we can’t reach out unless we know our subject,” Steve says. “And my point stands: My goddess would strip me of my powers, if I ever tried to hurt people.”

“I think we have some reading to do,” T’Chaka says.

“You don’t have to,” Steve says. “You have other things to worry about.”

T’Chaka nods at him. “Back then, we tried to stay in contact with the blessed, but as the world turned with imperialism and witch burnings, we lost contact. But if you are a descendant, we owe that and more to you.” He smiles and stands to walk out. “And if you’re not, we’ll send a bill,” he calls over his shoulder.

Steve glares at him, and Ramonda gets up as well, putting a leathery hand on Steve’s shoulder, before following her husband.

“T’Challa, aren’t you coming?” T’Chaka asks.

With the speed of light, Ramonda pushes T’Chaka out of the door. They hear T’Chaka yelp, as she closes the door and their footsteps quickly disappear.

Steve looks at him. “They seem nice.”

T’Challa’s eyes crinkle at him. –  _ As always the old man gets so wrapped up in his own voice, that he forgets to punish me. _

Steve smiles crookedly. “I’m glad he’s trying to help though.”

The silence quickly becomes thick. T’Challa seems to be waiting for an outburst, and Steve does feel awkward, realizing that T’Challa isn’t exactly who he pretended to be. But T’Challa has always been mysterious; and to be truthful, T’Challa royal blood doesn’t make Steve feel any differently about him.

\-  _ You’re not mad,  _ T’Challa finally signs, his eyes surprised. –  _ You really don’t care about all of this, do you? _

“That I was dead and you brought me back to life, that my ancestors were super-healers, or that you’re part of the richest family on earth?” Steve sarcastically asks. “I don’t know, I think it’s a little hard to take in right now.”

T’Challa scrunches his eyes, before putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. It’s big and warm and comforting and it feels far too close. –  _ What part do you want to talk about first? _

Steve frowns at him. “I don’t want to think about any of it. You’re a prince, so what? You still sleep with the lights on.”

\-    _ Figures, considering you never cared for authority. _

“We all end up in a coffin anyway,” Steve says. “But I guess I understand. We haven’t known each other for so long, so I can see why you wouldn’t want to talk about it. Does Peggy know?”

T’Challa nods, looking worriedly at him.

“I knew about my ancestors, but I always thought it was some fairytale,” Steve says. “I never thought ‘healing with love’ was to be taken seriously.”

\-    _ You’re shaking. _

“He killed me,” Steve says. “He killed me. He grabbed me by my throat, didn’t even utter a word. Just pressed down. He could’ve – could’ve snapped my neck in a second, but he wanted me  _ scared _ – “

T’Challa pulls Steve in, and Steve drapes his body onto T’Challa’s, clinging to his heat.

“I was so scared,” Steve starts crying. “How can someone be so cold?”

Steve keeps weeping and he weeps and weeps until he’s numb and then he falls asleep.

\----

When he wakes up again, his eyes are puffy and stinging. A hand is stroking his hair, and he opens his eyes, looking up. T’Challa’s hand massages Steve’s scalp and Steve moans a little. His head is heavy and his mouth is dry. But he can’t bring himself to move, as T’Challa softly rubs his scalp.

Finally T’Challa pulls back, and signs: -  _ The jet will be here in a minute. You need to get up. _

Steve lazily blinks at him. He’s not getting up anytime soon .

T’Challa looks at him, and then stands. Steve mourns the lack of caress and then T’Challa comes back with a huge cup of water.

Steve forces himself to sit up, and silently drinks the water. “Are you coming with me?” he finally asks, his voice low and rasp y . He unintendedly starts leaning into T’Challa’s side, his body so hard to keep straight.

\-    _ Y-E-S _ , T’Challa spells on his side.

Steve blearily looks up at him. “Okay.”

T’Challa gently grips Steve’s arm, and then pulls Steve  to his feet. Steve sighs.

\-    _ It’s okay. Your body is recovering from the attack and the resurrection. It’s normal to sleep a lot. _

That fact doesn’t make it easier for Steve to leave the palace. T’Challa ends up walking with an arm around his side, taking the elevator up to the roof where a very small jet is waiting; only big enough for two seats. Steve is placed into the passenger seat, and by the time T’Challa has taken off, Steve is already asleep. 

\----

Steve wakes up. His face is bathed in orange sunlight, and outside the clouds are looking heavy underneath them. It’s a beautiful sight, and Steve hangs onto it as T’Challa lowers the jet. The sea is huge and vast underneath them, the surface reflecting the sky like a mirror. Funny how the ripples are unnoticeable when you’re this far up.

“T’Challa,” Steve whispers.

T’Challa throws a look at him.

“Thank you.”

\----

Even though Steve sleeps for the whole ride home, he feels even more tired when they land on the Tower’s platform. He succeeds releasing himself from his seat belt, but almost tumbles down the steps. T’Challa shoots out an arm and grabs him right away, and Steve groans.

“Huuurts,” he groans.

The doorways to the roofs are opening, as T’Challa rights Steve’s body like it’s a ragdoll.

“Steve,” Sam calls out, making  his way across the roof with striding steps, his arms loose and his wings glancing the floor. 

“Sam,” Steve says. “Sam. Where’s Bucky?”

“He’s doing a debriefing with his boss,” Sam reports back, and takes the arm that isn’t draped over T’Challa’s shoulder. One of them could probably carry him, but he’s glad they still have his pride in mind.

“Tiiiireeed,” Steve complains.

They don’t answer, and he catches Sam staring questionably at T’Challa.

After a moment T’Challa shakes his head.

They walk to the elevator and surprisingly they get off on Natasha’s floor. Sam dumps him on the bed, and after  a few minutes Natasha dashes in, somehow making it look graceful. She’s talking to him, but Steve can’t understand her, letting himself be pulled into a doze.

“...so you’re saying he’s gonna sleep for days so he can repair himself?” Sam asks .

Someone is nuzzling his hair, and he leans into the touch.

“...beyond me,” Natasha says at some point. “But an IV would be a good idea, if he’s too tired to eat.”

“I’m gonna stay with him, you two can go ahead and debrief with Satan,” he hears Sam sniff, and then someone is rustling up beside him, draping a wing over him. 

\----

Someone keeps pulling at his arm, and he wakes with a startle as something stabs him in the arm. Shouting, he struggles, trying to pull his arm back and there are soothing voices. Finally, something tight has been secured on the inside of his elbow, and he mewls, pulling his arm back protectively. Despite how scared and frantic  he feels, not knowing where he is and who is hurting him, he can’t wake up. Being awake is far above the surface, and he’s at the bottom of the ocean. 

\----

“Steve get up.”

“Noooooo.”

“You need to at least eat, it’s been five days – ”

“Nooooo.”

Someone roughly pulls him up anyways, and drags him to the bathroom. As the shower is turned on, he blearily looks at the bright lights, blinking quickly as figures take shape.

As soon as Bucky has left to get towels, Steve falls asleep on the bathroom floor.

\----

Sam is screeching. He has been for a while.

Steve unsticks one of his set of eyelids, and glares at him.

Sam winks and grins and escalates his screeching into a screaming. Steve groans and puts pillows on his head. He drifts off, even though his mind is awake, and at some point Sam quiets down.

\-----

“We’ve been calling you for five days!” Sam exclaims, as the door is opened. “You said a few days, not a week!”

Someone is shaking him.

“Noooooo,” he mewls, and rolls away.

Big hands grab him and Steve keens, opening his eyes and staring at T’Challa’s face.

His vision  _ twitches,  _ and every shape, every light,  _ leaks _ . It’s like everything he sees is a lava lamp, are roses blooming in high speed, like blood in water. T’Challa’s aura is shifting, rolling, like waves on the beach. Steve’s eyes unfocus and then he stares at Sam, his aura the usual airy radiation, covered in wind nymph kisses, but for the first time Steve sees tiny veins in Sam’s aura, flowing with water and gold, extending from his body like a network.

Steve sees small floods extend from their body, a thin and slow one in between Sam and T’Challa, thick ones both directing to Steve’s body. Steve stares at his hands, and his hands are caught with dozens of threads. 

He looks up again, and reaches out towards T’Challa’s kaleidoscope like aura. Silver butterfly wings are flickering. Steve doesn’t have to touch T’Challa; the flood connects them, and how can T’Challa feel so close, how can Steve sense T’Challa’s body like it is his own. Steve can feel the inside of T’Challa. Not only his biological insides – his emotional ones.

“I see you,” Steve whispers.

Everything is flowing together, and the details disappear again.

\----

When Steve wakes up, he knows he’s done sleeping. Shakily he sits up, and sees Vision besides his bed, reading a magazine with an intrigued frown on his forehead.

“I’m hungry,” Steve says.

Vision lowers the magazine, and says: “I will make the cook prepare something for you.”

“No. I want sushi.” He stands up, and goes to the closet. “Let’s go outside.”

“Steve, perhaps - “

“Good, let’s go.”

Steve’s too tired to put anything but a robe on, and Vision sighs as he notifies Bucky and Sam. They take the elevator down to the lobby, and when the android freezes, looking at the lobby full of people, Steve puts his arm around Vision’s. Not many are taking notice of Vision though, and Steve drags him through the lobby. His legs are weak and exhaustion is still in his body, but he’s determined to get his sushi.

Still, Vision is so all around fascinated by the outside world, that they’re walking at a slow pace with sudden stops. Vision will occasionally ask a question. Gradually Steve starts leaning more and more onto him, not that Vision notices.

They walk towards Time Square, and Steve buys caramelized almonds, as Vision stares at the billboards. He eats them lazily, and then buys some bread from a kiosk. He gives it to Vision, and together they head towards Central Park. Steve sits down and continues eating, as Vision hesitantly feeds the birds, his face lightening up gradually as the animals approach him. Steve suspects that the birds don’t know that Vision is alive, and therefore they have no troubles landing on his body, casually picking at his “skin”. Meanwhile Steve watches the world, and the pressure which had been building in his chest, gradually fades. It’s nice to be outside, and Steve realizes that he hasn’t been anywhere public for over a month now. He feels almost normal, untroubled. Carefree for the first time in a long time. People’s auras are still as radiating and detailed as the last time Steve woke up, and Steve notices that groups and pairs, are usually connected with the small streams, varying in size, while strangers’ aura only flicker a bit when their eyes meet.

The streams must be emotional connections. But what do all of the details in their  auras mean?

Vision finally runs out of bread, and he walks over to Steve, and sits down besides him.

“Thanks for taking me out,” Steve says. “Last time I was outside like this it was summer, and now the  leaves are turning yellow.”

Vision looks at him, his gem glowing. “I should be thanking you, Steven,” he just says, and they sit in silence for a while, Steve hugging his robe around his body.

“Wasn’t the intention of this trip to get you sushi?” Vision reminds him.

“Eh. Let’s just go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you liked, what you're confused about and what you weren't a fan of ^^


End file.
